


Top of The World

by TheLittleSongbird



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And then New York, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Somnophilia, F/M, Idiots in Paris, Incest, Parent/Child Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleSongbird/pseuds/TheLittleSongbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“These doors of yours, they’re all tears, right? Well open one up! Open one up to Paris. I want to be shut of all this.”</i>
</p><p>She hadn’t considered what would happen if they left. If they didn’t see the story through to the end. If she didn’t have to watch the life leave her father’s eyes as she blinked out of existence. If Comstock was never smothered. If Booker never knew.</p><p>If Booker never knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Patty Griffin's song of the same name.
> 
> Chapter titles are all French phrases that don't have direct English translations.

 

It all came down to choices, in the end. 

 

To baptize or not.

To bring them the girl or not.

To destroy the siphon or not.

To go to Paris or—

 

That was it, wasn’t it? Choices upon choices. Constants and variables.

Booker had made all the decisions throughout the battle. She watched him run and bleed and tear his way through the city of Columbia until it was a shell of its former self. She may have opened that final door out of the city, but he had made the choice to destroy the siphon in the first place. He was the catalyst. Always.

But now…

Elizabeth stares back at Booker, her hand in his, her feet and dress beginning to soak through from the murky lake water. It was a simple question that he had asked, probably said more in haste and desperation than actual sincerity.

_“These doors of yours, they’re all tears, right? Well open one up! Open one up to Paris. I want to be shut of all this.”_

She could. Elizabeth knew it wasn’t a matter of her own capabilities—she may not understand the full capacity of her powers, but a door to Paris would be as easy as breathing for her now.

No. Booker had been given all the choices up until this point. And now it was Elizabeth’s turn. And she doesn’t know what this choice means.

Was this a constant? Would her decision always be the same, no matter how the circumstances change? Was this a moment written into the fabric of time and locked as a fixed point?

Or was this where their story would break apart? Was this another variable, branching off into another billion upon billions of universes? Thousands of possibilities would be dependent on her choice in this moment.

She knows what lies ahead, if they kept going. She had seen it then as if it was now, the past converging onto the present and revealing to her the life of Booker Dewitt. The drinking, the gambling, the betrayal. The deal with Comstock by proxy of the Luteces. The attempted rescue. The impending guilt. The carving of the hand and the scrambled memories. _Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt_. But the debt was already erased. He had just forgotten who he was, who _she_ was, and who she was to him. 

But this Booker, _her_ Booker, knew none of this. And she knows deep down, that she had to show him. He had to know what they were. Who he would become, and why he had to be stopped.

Elizabeth winces and rubs her temple as a sharp pain shoots through her head. There were too many possibilities happening all at once. She needs to separate the Booker of the future and the Booker of the present. Or is it the Booker of the past?

Or is it Comstock that she has to reconcile?

“Elizabeth?”

She whips her head up to catch Booker’s eyes, swimming in concern and quiet desperation. Was this really the man who had sold her off to the highest bidder, once upon a time? The man who had saved her, risked his life for her, traversed through space and time for her? Was he the same as the father that gave her away? The father that stole her back?

She knows how this story ends. She knows that everything comes to a close back here, in this river, with her hands on his shoulders and his lungs full of water. Could she do that to the man that stood before her?

“Would you?” She chokes out, ignoring his concern from a moment before.

“Would I what?”

“If I opened a door to Paris, would you come with me?”

She hadn’t considered what would happen if they left. If they didn’t see the story through to the end. If she didn’t have to watch the life leave her father’s eyes as she blinked out of existence. If Comstock was never smothered. If Booker never knew.

If Booker never knew.

Booker closes the distance between them. He reaches up to cup her cheek, and Elizabeth finds herself leaning into the warmth of his hand. For a fleeting moment, she thinks he might kiss her, and she mentally chastises herself for thinking of such a thing. Instead, Booker leans down and touches his forehead to hers.

“I promised you that I would keep you safe. No matter what, Elizabeth, I’m right here beside you. You got that?” He says it with such confidence that Elizabeth is briefly reassured of all doubts. She is struck by how similar his voice sounds to Comstock’s when she had met him on the airship. Maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised.

She can save them, Elizabeth realizes. She can end this horrible cycle of violence and death, and she can save him. There will still be lies, of course. Lies and half-truths and hidden identities. But it may be worth it. Because above all else, Booker would be alive. And they would be safe.

Elizabeth backs away from Booker, her hand still in his, and she tugs him towards the door on the hill.

“Do you really want to do this, Booker?”

“Do you?”

That choice, again. Go to Paris, and live out their lives as peacefully as possible. Or keep moving forward, killing Comstock once and for all, as well as Booker.

She knows the right choice. But the right choice isn’t always the best one. 

“Yes.” She nods, and relief washes over Booker’s face. He squeezes her hand.

“Then lead on.”

She thinks there was only one choice, in the end.

 


	2. Mise en abyme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I don’t have a chemise,” she waits for Booker to register what she means, but he continues to watch her with a look of confusion. She tries again, “I threw away my chemise after—it was covered in blood, so I couldn’t wear it,” she tries not to think of Daisy, of the warmth of her blood as it seeped into her hands, her clothes, her entire soul. Elizabeth stares down at her hands, and she swears she can still see the rusted red color under her fingernails._
> 
>  
> 
> _She suddenly understands Lady Macbeth’s madness with acute clarity._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in maybe, perhaps beta-ing this for me, I would really love and appreciate it! I try to edit as I go and re-read over it, but sometimes you don't always catch everything.
> 
> Comments are much appreciated!

Silver Eagles don’t convert to francs very well. But the silver itself is worth its weight. She hadn’t realized just how much money the two of them had amassed back in Columbia. She also hadn’t realized how that phrase would sound in her head: “back in Columbia”. As if it was just a memory.

 They sell Booker’s machine gun to a pawn broker, who probably means to ask questions but thankfully doesn’t. Booker hangs onto the hand cannon and gives her his pistol.

“For your own safety,” he says, as if they hadn’t spent the last several days on the run from Columbia’s police force or the Vox Populi. But she’s never been here, and Booker has experience living on the Surface, so she may as well take the gun. She tries not to think of the people that died at the other end of the pistol as she tucks it into her skirt. She tries not to think of Booker’s own rationale for keeping the Skyhook. 

Elizabeth finds them a tiny apartment on the outskirts of Montmartre through the newspaper. Booker doesn’t speak French, so he lets Elizabeth negotiate with the landlord, a thin fellow with a bushy mustache and a love for Van Gogh. He tells her that he is an artist, and would be delighted to paint her likeness. She gently refuses, with the promise to consider his offer. They agree on a price for the room, one that Elizabeth worries may quickly become rather steep, and Monsieur Devereaux asks her if they want one bed or two.

Elizabeth freezes.

 _I’m his daughter_.

But she can’t tell him that. Booker will eventually learn french, and the last thing she needs is for Monsieur Devereaux to reveal her secret. But what else would make sense? If they weren’t related, the only other assumption would be that they were lovers, and while it would guarantee more privacy, the lie didn’t sit comfortably on Elizabeth’s tongue.

Still, two beds would beg more questions than one, so she requests one bed. Monsieur Devereaux’s smile falls for a brief moment, before he turns away for a key. Elizabeth thinks that perhaps the charade of lovers would be to their benefit after all.

The room is small, the bed placed right in the middle of the room, a dingy mattress on a wrought iron bed frame.. A door to the left leads off to the water closet, and a wood burning stove sits in the opposite corner. A ragged and dusty room divider leans against the window, flowers painted on in the Japanese style. A love seat sofa sits next to it, a large gash splitting the cushion open, cotton batting spilling out. Below the window is a simple radiator, air popping through the pipes at sporadic intervals.

She waits for Booker to comment on the room, expects him to mention the bed, but he simply walks over to it and collapses on top. He moans into the bedsheets, and Elizabeth flushes at the obscene noise. She quickly locks the door behind her and heads over to the love seat.

“We’ll need to find employment at some point. We can’t live off of pawned silver forever.”

Booker grunts in response. She rolls her eyes and stares out the window. “I don’t know what I could do. Maybe find a tea shop to work at. Or a patisserie.” Booker doesn’t respond. He’s barely spoken at all since they’ve arrived. Whether he’s simply exhausted or jaded by the whole situation, Elizabeth has no idea.

“Or maybe I’ll just go down to the Moulin Rouge. See if they’re hiring can-can girls.”

Booker rolls over and glares at Elizabeth. She smirks, pleased to have gotten some kind of human response out of him.

“Don’t you even think about it,” he snarls, and Elizabeth’s breath catches at the authority in his voice.

“Why not? I read that they pay the girls very nicely there,” She challenges, crossing her arms defiantly. Perhaps she’s acting stubborn to grate his nerves. Perhaps she’s being coy because of the thrill his protective nature gives her. She’s not entirely sure which is the better excuse to make, so she pushes it to the back of her mind.

Booker stands up from the bed and trudges across the room, stopping at the love seat and looming over her. Elizabeth feels a shiver as she watches his dark gaze.

“And did your books say anything about the men that go to places like that? What they do to the girls after hours?” She can hear the anger in his voice, and under that, the softest touch of…what? Desperation?

“I can take care of myself, Booker,” She retorts back.

“Dammit, Liz, you don’t know this place! There may not be Patriots or Vox running around, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of danger. The second one of those men gets a look at a girl like you, they’ll do anything to have their way with you. It’s not safe.”

She knows this. She wouldn’t dream of going to the Moulin Rouge for employment. But seeing Booker get riled up over something, when for so long he remained as stoic as possible, excites Elizabeth in a way she hadn’t felt before. He’s dangerous, and it warms her insides.  It’s the same excitement she felt when they first escaped her tower. When she first asked him if he was married.

_I’m your daughter._

Elizabeth blinks, and looks up at Booker’s face, somehow closer to hers than it was previously. She quickly slides back against the love seat, away from Booker’s form.

“I’m sorry. I was just teasing,” she brushes her hair behind her ear, a habit she wasn’t expecting to form so quickly after cutting it. She looks down at her muddy boots, at the aged wood floors, anywhere but Booker’s face or other body parts that just so happen to be at her eye level. She hears Booker sigh and move away, and when she chances a glance up, he’s rubbing his temple, eyes squeezed shut.

“Christ, Liz. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

“It’s okay” _I liked it_.

“It’s not. It’s just—“ Booker looks up at the ceiling as if searching for the right words. Maybe he’d forcing himself not to look her way too. “You’re my responsibility. I know you can take care of yourself—hell, you’ve taken care of me more times than the other way around. But if you got hurt, I don’t think I’d forgive myself,” she can hear his voice beginning to break, and when he turns away from her, she lets him. She was aware of the protective streak Booker acquired during their escape from Columbia, but she had no idea how much her safety meant to him. Maybe it was a result of his repressed guilt from giving her up. A father’s guilt, only half remembered.

When Booker straightens up again, it’s with the same stone-faced expression that she had become accustomed to since her rescue.

“We should turn in. Finally get a chance to sleep for once. We shouldn’t let the opportunity go,” he walks into the small washroom, and a moment later she hears the sound of the faucet running.

Elizabeth leans down to start unlacing her boots. The wet leather sticks to her stockings as she pulls them off and slides them over by the radiator. She pulls her jacket off and reaches behind for the laces of her corset. She stops

She’s only wearing her corset and skirts. And while she could arguably strip down to her drawers, she would have to sleep in her corset. Not the most comfortable option, but until she bought new clothes…

Elizabeth crosses over to the bed and sits down, swinging her legs onto the mattress. Not even bothering with her skirts, she fluffs the pillow under her head and lays down, staring up at the ceiling. She hears the faucet turn off, and she forces her eyes shut, listening for Booker’s footsteps come from the washroom. He clears his throat.

“Elizabeth.”

She sits up, meets his eyes from across the room. He leans against the doorframe to the washroom, a ragged towel in his hand. The wrapping on his right hand has been changed, his scar and wound covered by a clean white cloth. He gestures vaguely in her direction when she doesn’t answer.

“Do you need help with that?”

Elizabeth looks down at herself. He must mean the corset. Naturally, since he helped her lace back into it at Comstock House, he thinks she needs his assistance to get it off. She nearly laughs at the absurdity of it all.

“I’m fine, Booker. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I….I don’t have a chemise,” she waits for Booker to register what she means, but he continues to watch her with a look of confusion. She tries again, “I threw away my chemise after—it was covered in blood, so I couldn’t wear it,” she tries not to think of Daisy, of the warmth of her blood as it seeped into her hands, her clothes, her entire soul. Elizabeth stares down at her hands, and she swears she can still see the rusted red color under her fingernails.

She suddenly understands Lady Macbeth’s madness with acute clarity.

“Covered in—shit!” Booker drags his hands down his face, his face turning quickly to a deep red. “I’m sorry, Liz. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine,” she hears herself say, but she doesn’t register her mouth moving to form the words.

“It’s really not. Christ. I keep trying to—I’m just screwing everything up.”

Elizabeth stares at her hands, cataloguing the gashes and abrasions on her knuckles. Her face is tender from bruising, and she can see blisters cracking open on her toes. What a sight they must’ve been; her and Booker requesting a room, looking as if they had just gone ten rounds with a professional boxer. Or ten rounds of—

She chokes out a laugh at the thought, and then considers it more. Her laughter builds, until she giggling like a maniac.

“What’s so funny?” Booker looks at her as if she’s gone mad, and Elizabeth thinks he may not be far from the truth. She tries to speak through her laughing fit.

“It’s just—I’m in nothing but a corset—“

“So?”

“So—“ she laughs even harder, “So Monsieur Devereaux probably thinks I’m a prostitute. And you’re—“ she tries to stop her giggles, but fails, “you’re my pimp!” she collapses onto the bed, laughter taking over in full, as she hears Booker begin to chuckle.

“Oh, god,” he groans, then erupts into peels of laughter with her. They laugh and laugh, and Elizabeth forgets for a moment everything that has happened to them in the past few days. No thoughts of Comstock, or Fitzroy, or Luteces. No Columbia or Vox. No Songbird or Handymen. There's’ just her and Booker, and the hilarity of mistaken identities.

Her laughter fades when she can barely breathe and her side hurts. She wipes stray tears from her eyes, then giggles one last time. She looks over to Booker, and her heart nearly stops.

He’s looking at her with the biggest smile she’s ever seen. All teeth and gums, and crinkles around the eyes. He’s breathing heavily from all the laughter, but there’s a twinkle in his eye, and Elizabeth wants to capture this moment forever. She wants to see that smile every day of her life.

He’s absolutely glorious.

His smiles fades a fraction, and he tugs off his gun holster, tossing it over to the love seat. He yanks his vest off and it follows the sam trajectory as the holster.

“Here,” he begins to unbutton his shirt, and Elizabeth feels the heat in her face rising.

“What are you doing?” She doesn’t mean for the question to come out quite as squeaky as it does.

“That thing can’t be too comfortable,” he says simply, stripping off the black shirt and handing it to Elizabeth. He stands in his trousers and undershirt, but she feels anxious as if he was standing in front of her bare-chested. She quickly moves her gaze down to the shirt in her hands. “I’m sorry it’s not the cleanest,” he continues, as if he can’t see her panicking, “but it’s the best I can offer. Unless you want me to go out, see if there are any stores open—“

“No,” she jump up from the bed, clutching the shirt in her hands as she crosses to the washroom, “It’s perfect. I’ll just…go change.” She rushes into the washroom, closing the door behind her.

Elizabeth lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and looks up at her face in the mirror. Dirt smudges her face, blending in nicely with the bruises on her temple and under her eye. She lays Booker’s shirt down over the lip of the tub and reaches back behind her to unlace her corset. She loosens it enough to open the garment from the front, then removes the skirt and petticoat from underneath it, letting it drop and pool around her feet. She stares at herself, naked from the waist up, her drawers sitting low on her waist.

She reaches out to turn the faucet on, and water sputters out in a steady stream. She wrings her hands under the water, trying to rub out any excess dirt and grime from them. Trying to clean the blood from her hands. _Out damn spot, out I say!_

Cupping her hands under the water, she watches them fill and overflow before bringing her face closer to the sink, splashing water on herself and rubbing the dirt from her cheeks. She runs her wet fingers through her hair, and as she goes to return her hands to the faucet, she stops.

Her hands are covered in red water. She reaches up to her hair again, and runs her fingers along the edge of her bob. The pads of her fingers come back red.

Elizabeth nearly vomits at the realization. She thought she was rid of Daisy’s blood. She thought by her washing and changing into her mother’s clothes, she would erase the mess from herself. She thought if she was rid of her hair—

But the scissors were bloody. Soaked in Daisy Fitzroy’s blood like her clothes and her skin. And she had cut her hair with them, allowing the redness to bleed into her scalp, into her head. She ducks her head under the faucet in haste, shivering at the cold water hitting the back of her neck. She scrubs her hands through her wet hair frantically, pleading that finally, _finally_ she’ll be rid of that awful reminder.

A sharp pain pierces Elizabeth’s temple, and she recoils away from the sink.

_She sees herself with scissors in hand, blood sputtering from Fitzroy’s mouth as she reaches towards her. Her bloody hands streak across Elizabeth’s skirt, falling once more in a heap. She sees Booker’s face, her knight in shining armor, contorted at the horror she had committed. She smells the metallic blood as she spins on her heel and runs away._

_She sees herself, hand in hand with Booker, looming over a crib. He continues to swear that this didn’t happen, there was no baby, but she knows better. She leads him to Lutece, who takes the child away, thanking him on behalf of Comstock._

_She sees herself, the same but different, in a black skirt and white blouse. Her nails painted red, a cigarette dangling from her fingers as she confronts the detective. To her, he’s Booker in name only; she still sees him as Comstock. And she knows exactly how to get him to do what she wants._

_She sees herself, watching as Booker—no, Comstock remembers how he came to Rapture. How she was there, trying to stop him from taking the baby. How he let go, and the real Booker nearly got his daughter back. How the tear had collapsed too early, tightening around the baby’s throat instead of her little finger. How Comstock begged to be taken away from the guilt, away from the memory._

_She sees herself, hatred in her heart while she watches Comstock’s face, crushed and devastated. He reaches out to her, pleading for her comfort._

_“Elizabeth, child. I am so sorry.”_

_“No, you’re not. But you’re about to be.”_

_She feels the splatter of blood on her face. His blood. She knows it’s Comstock’s, but all she sees is Booker’s eyes. Booker’s blood. He’s bleeding. Oh god, he’s bleeding everywhere!_

Elizabeth cries out, sobs wracking her body while she clutches the lip of the tub. There’s a banging on the door, but she can barely hear it over the sound of the rushing water in the sink.

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth!” Booker sounds frantic behind the wooden door. But Booker’s dead. She killed him. How can he be here if he’s already dead?

Elizabeth shivers and grabs the nearest piece of clothing to her—a black button down shirt. She wraps it around her shoulders but doesn’t button it, rubbing her nose against the sleeves as she tries to control her sobbing.

“Elizabeth, open the door!” the doorknob rattles, and she can’t remember when she locked the door. She tries to stand, but is hit by the sudden smell of blood on rusted scissors, and she curls in on herself again. She hears a loud bang and feels a rush of air behind her, but she refuses to look up.

Calloused hands wrap around her neck, and she feels herself being pulled into a warm, hard body. She can smell gunpowder and sandalwood, and whiskey and suddenly her headache subsides. The tears still come, but she feels less like shes choking on salt water and blood. The hands lift her head up, and she can see Booker’s face, his eyes, and he’s alive, and not dead, and she hasn’t killed him yet. And Elizabeth feels so relieved.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft and wrecked. He cradles her head in his hands, and she feels strangely like a child again. She wipes her tears away and gives him a watery smile.

“Hi.”

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” he presses, but his eyes tell her that he’ll let her speak on her own terms, that he won’t force her to relive her episode. She fumbles for what to say, to relieve him of some of the worry.

_I’m your daughter and I’m in love with you and I keep killing you over and over again._

“It’s the siphon,” she finally chokes out, “I’m still getting glimpses behind the doors. Every possible variable and the futures that they lead to.” It’s the easiest way to explain it without having to explain it at all.

“Are you hurt?” Booker’s hands begin to track down her back, searching for bruises or scrapes.

“I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” It’s a lie, and he probably knows it, but he doesn’t push further. Elizabeth reaches out towards him and grabs handfuls of his undershirt. She pulls him closer to her, and he wraps his arms around her in turn. With their bodies flush to each other, she feels as if she can breathe easier. And when he pulls back, she wants to grab him again and drown herself in his warmth.

“Here, let’s get this buttoned…” she feels him tug gently at the shirt around her shoulders, lifting her arms up and through the arm holes. It’s only then that she remembers her chest is bare, and she scrambles to help him get the shirt on. Her fingers move down to the buttons, but Booker’s deft hands are already working their way from the bottom up. He watches her face the whole time, though Elizabeth knows her breasts are still exposed. She almost wishes he would look at her body rather than her face, to prove to herself that he might think of her as a woman instead of a girl. That he might want her as a woman. Instead, he holds her gaze, polite like any friend would be. Coddling her like a child.

She leans back once the button below her collarbone is done up, and Booker runs his hand through her damp hair. He leans forward and places a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“C’mon, Liz. Let’s go to bed,” he stands up and offers his hand, which Elizabeth takes graciously. He lifts her up to standing, only for her knees to give out. Booker is right there, lifting her up in his arms, as a man would do with his wife, and carries her out of the washroom.

Elizabeth feels the soft mattress beneath her as Booker lowers her onto the bed. He pulls the covers up over her body, and she feels like yelling at him that she’s not a child. But the exhaustion is catching up with her, and she feels her eyes grow heavy. Booker sits beside her, on the edge of the bed, and he lifts his hand up to her cheek. She smiles.

“You keep calling me Liz,” she teases. She grins like an idiot when his face flushes again. She didn’t think he was capable of blushing: he was too hard, too brusque, too steeped in his own misery. She wants to find out what else she can do to make him blush like that again.

“Just a slip of the tongue, I guess. I don’t have to call you that.”

“No, I like it,” she covers his hand with her own and squeezes, “I think it suits me. Don’t you?”

Booker smirks. “Yeah, I do.” He pulls away from her and rounds the bed in silence. Elizabeth slides further down on the mattress and rolls on her side, watches him crawl into the bed next to her. They stare at each other in the silence of the city around them, a tree branch tapping on the window, the radiator popping occasionally. She can pretend now, Elizabeth thinks. She can stay here with Booker, and listen to his breath, and pretend their shared pasts don’t exist. They’re not Comstock or Anna. They’re not murderers or saints or prophets. They’re not father or daughter.

“Goodnight Booker.”

“’Night, Liz.”

When Elizabeth wakes the next morning, there’s a new dress hanging from the washroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mise en abyme: the process of making an image that contains itself with infinite recursion (for example, as observed while standing between two mirrors). It can be used metaphorically to describe infinite nesting (a dream within a dream, a story within a story) or self-referential discourse (a book or a movie whose content refers to itself). ___


	3. Bon Vivant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They fall into a routine of sorts. Elizabeth works during the day, and by the time she returns home, Booker has cooked a small meal for the two of them. They eat together, and he leaves for the bar just after dinner. Conversation between them is minimal. Touch is even more so. It grates on Elizabeth’s mind, not having anyone to talk to or feel, besides Pierre and Madame Beaumont, but she convinces herself that this is what’s best for them. It keeps her desires at bay, and leaves little risk of Booker learning the truth. Things are simple, and just as they should be. Elizabeth convinces herself of this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went through a lot of editing, since I originally had a smutty chapter planned, but figured it was a little too soon. So enjoy some fluff and Booker and Elizabeth flirting like teenagers.
> 
> More angst and smut to come later!

The bookstore is small, but cozy. The front door is lopsided in its frame, and the red paint is cracking. The books inside are old and dusty and stacked every which way, in towers and rows and sometimes even in strange spirals. There are fur balls scattered across the worn wooden floors, skipping along the bookshelves like tumbleweeds. The culprit, a large brown tiger cat named Pierre, sits on top of the windowsill, dozing away with the sun to his back. The store is off a side street, accessible only by bike or foot, so the number of customers entering the store is minimal.

But it smells like books. And Elizabeth is hired on the spot.

The store’s proprietor, Madame Beaumont, has never actually married, but insists on being called Madame. She’s in her mid sixties, but dresses herself as if she is still thriving in her twenties, caught up on all the most fashionable trends. Her story is that she was a call girl in her youth, but met a handsome and rich soldier called from Naples called Gregorie, who taught her how to properly read and write. He bought her freedom from her employers and they settled in the apartment above their favorite bookstore, where he first brought her when he began his courtship. The former owner of the shop was ill at the time, and when Madame Beaumont’s lover offered to buy the building, he was written into the will as the owner’s beneficiary. Sadly, Gregorie left Madame Beaumont for a mission out at sea, and his ship was wrecked by a giant sperm whale, leaving Madame Beaumont with the apartment, the bookstore, and all of his wealth.

At least, that’s what Madam Beaumont tells Elizabeth.

She takes Elizabeth under her wing, so to speak, especially when Elizabeth arrives on her second day of work in the same outfit as the first day, just with a ribbon added to her hair. Madame Beaumont scolds her and rushes her into the back room, where she demands that Elizabeth strip down to her drawers and chemise, tossing an airy tea gown at her head.

Elizabeth tries desperately to return the clothes that Madame Beaumont continues to shove in her arms, day after day, but she simply replies that if she had a daughter of her own with Gregorie, she would look like Elizabeth, so why not spoil the daughter she might have had. They negotiate eventually that Elizabeth would stop griping about the clothes, as long as Madame Beaumont only pays her for the work she does, and nothing more. Booker grumbles when she tells him, arguing that she should at least accept more coin if it was offered.

Elizabeth finds out that Booker got a job at a bar a week after they’ve moved in. She worries that, with his past alcohol abuse, that it may not be best, but Booker assures her that he’s not allowed to get drunk when he’s the one pouring the drinks. She’s still hesitant, but she reasons that it’s a better job for him than what he used to do for the Pinkerton’s. The less violence in Booker’s life, the better. She just hopes he stays behind the bar and doesn’t get involved if any fights break out.

They fall into a routine of sorts. Elizabeth works during the day, and by the time she returns home, Booker has cooked a small meal for the two of them. They eat together, and he leaves for the bar just after dinner. Conversation between them is minimal. Touch is even more so. It grates on Elizabeth’s mind, not having anyone to talk to or feel, besides Pierre and Madame Beaumont, but she convinces herself that this is what’s best for them. It keeps her desires at bay, and leaves little risk of Booker learning the truth. Things are simple, and just as they should be. Elizabeth convinces herself of this.

Sunday becomes her favorite day. The bookstore is closed, and Elizabeth had practically begged Booker to ask off Sunday nights. If there was only one day a week that Elizabeth could have him all to herself, she was going to make the most of it. The first few Sundays are spent visiting the biggest tourist attractions possible: the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe.

She had seen it a millions times through the tears in her tower, but there’s nothing quite as exciting to Elizabeth as walking the length of the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower looming above them in all its majesty. Tugging on his shirt sleeve, she practically drags Booker further towards the gargantuan structure, stars in her eyes.

As they get closer, Elizabeth can smell the roasted nuts that men sell from their stalls by the bag. A dozen or so artists line the streets, sketchpads aloft on their laps or easels, women and families sitting in front of them, waiting on their portraitures to be completed. An older man stands in front of a stall surrounded by tables on all sides, books upon books stacked around him. The small wooden sign advertises one franc per book, and Elizabeth nearly topples over with the stack she makes for herself; the likes of Shakespeare, Wilde, Whitman, and Marx overflowing her arms.

“Don’t you work at a bookstore, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth gives her best doe-eyed look and pouts to the best of her ability, “But Madame Beaumont’s books aren’t nearly as inexpensive as these! Besides, she doesn’t even bother carrying H.G. Wells. She says his stories are too impractical, and no one wants to read about things like machines that send you forward in time.”

Booker grumbles before handing the book-stall owner the appropriate amount of money. He casts a stern look over at Elizabeth.

“You know, we should be saving our money for more important things. Like rent. And maybe some decent dishes.”

“And we will. But books are just as important as dishes, Booker.”

“You can’t eat off a book.”

“Says the man who literally stole meals out of trash bins,” she grins widely as Booker’s eyes narrow disapprovingly.

“You’re not gonna let me forget that, are you?”

“Not anytime soon, no. Now, come on!,” She nods her head towards the iron behemoth behind her, “If we hurry, we can go up before the crowds get bigger.”

Booker stares up at the Eiffel Tower, then back down to Elizabeth. “You seriously want to go up to the top? Voluntarily? I can’t see how it’s gonna be much different than the view you had back—the view you used to have.” She notices the way he avoids mentioning Columbia, and she knows that he does it for her own sake rather than his. It comforts her to know that he’s watching out for her, but she doesn’t need him to protect her. Not like she did when they escaped her tower.

“The difference is that it’ll be Paris we’ll look down on. And what could be better than seeing all of Paris all at once?” She adjusts her books under one arm and reaches out with the other to take his hand. She squeezes it, hoping the gesture will settle Booker’s worry. _I’m fine. I’m not going to break._

Booker squeezes back before offering to carry half her pile, heading in the direction of the Tower.

The line to take the lifts up the Tower was less of an actual line and more of a crowd, a mob of people dressed in their finery, pushing and shoving one another to be the first to enter the lift cars. Elizabeth winces at the possibility of standing in such a crowded space, and she notices the line for the stairs just to the left, a line that is substantially less overwhelming. They work their way over to the stairs, Elizabeth teasing Booker all the while about his history with elevator buttons.

“It’s probably for the best, us using the stairs instead of the lift. We wouldn’t want them to charge us for breaking the button after you punch it to oblivion.”

“You really had to bring that up? You’re the most ungrateful person I’ve ever saved from a tower.” He’s smiling when he says it though, and Elizabeth feels more confident in her own jest.

“You didn’t even save me! You literally fell through my window! I could’ve gotten out just fine by myself.”

“Not without that key. Which if I remember correctly, _I gave you_.”

Elizabeth shrugs nonchalantly, “I was working on it.”

Booker smirks at her, and he hums a small _mm-hmm_ before beginning the ascent up the Eiffel Tower steps.

There’s little to say to each other, and less breath to say it in as their climb continues. Elizabeth keeps readjusting her grip on her books, and she silently chastises herself for not thinking to buy them _after_ they had climbed the Tower. Booker keeps looking behind him at her, making sure she’s still following, and glaring at the people behind her, especially one particular gentleman who keeps staring at Elizabeth’s rear. She quietly reassures him that if the stranger does anything, she’ll open a tear and drop him in. Booker laughs aloud at that, and Elizabeth smiles sweetly at the questioning look the gentleman gives her.

At the top, Elizabeth rushes over to the railing, the wind whipping her short hair all around her face. She looks out over the Champ de Mars and beyond, the lights of faraway buildings beginning to flicker on.

Booker comes up from behind her, and Elizabeth holds her breath, waiting and hoping that he’ll wrap his arms around her and pull her close. She lets it out quickly when his hands rest gently on her shoulders instead. She tries not to let her disappointment show in her posture or her voice.

“Did I ever thank you, Booker?”

“Thank me for what?”

Elizabeth turns, her back pressed against the railing, the books clutched tightly to her chest.

“For saving me from that tower. I can’t remember if I actually thanked you for doing that.”

Booker smirks at her, “I thought you could’ve gotten out of there yourself. All I did was fall through your window, remember?”

“I’m being serious here, Booker.” She holds his gaze as he searching her face, his teasing smile fading to a neutral frown. He brushes her hair back.

“It doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t. There really wasn’t the need to. Not when I was gonna…” he trails off, letting his hand fall from her face.

“But you didn’t. You still could’ve, even after we got rid of Comstock,” she clears her throat around the name, pushing aside the thoughts of her so-called father and her real one, “You stayed with me, through it all. I mean, you stood up to Songbird for me, you followed me to Paris! You didn’t have to do any of it.”

“Hey,” Booker tilts her head up, his thumb rubbing back and forth on her chin, “I told you before. We’re in this together. Come hell or high water.”

Elizabeth smiles. “I just…wanted to thank you, Booker. For everything. Even if it’s a little overdue.”

She watches as his eyes soften, and she thinks this might be the moment. It wouldn’t take anything at all to lean forward and brush her lips to his. And she wants to; God, she wants to desperately! But it doesn’t feel honest. And Elizabeth know it’ll never feel truly honest unless he knows the truth. And by then it’ll be too late.

Instead, she catalogues his face in the dying light of the city. She marks the streaks of gold in his green eyes, the fine lines that crinkle out from the edges. The sporadic grey hairs hidden among the lighter brown. The faint dusting of what could only be called freckles, the tiny scars that knick his face; from shaving and taking too many blows to the face. His nose is slightly crooked, barely noticeable unless looking for it, and Elizabeth wonders when he broke it.

Booker smirks at her again, and she hears the soft rumbling of a laugh in his chest. “What are you lookin’ at, Liz? Your city’s behind you,” He gently grabs her shoulders and spins her back around. Elizabeth grins as the city below illuminates itself, lights twinkling like stars scattered about the ground. The sky above is streaked with purples and pinks as the sun sinks below the horizon. She can hear the faint sound of musicians playing down on the Champ de Mars, bar songs flowing from the nearby pubs, sung with enthusiasm by drunken patrons. The air is getting cooler, and the breeze leaves Elizabeth cold enough to lean back against Booker’s warm chest.

She thinks she hears people murmuring beside them; thinks she can feel their eyes on her and Booker. Talking about the lovely couple in low whispers to their confidants, spoken in French and broken English. The lovely American couple visiting the Eiffel Tower. The paragon of romance, to their eyes. Elizabeth knows no one is looking at them. No one is talking about them. Not even giving them the time of day.

But oh, is it nice to imagine it for just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bon Vivant: a person who is living the good life. Someone who lives luxuriously and enjoys good food and drink. ___


	4. Bêtise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Elizabeth considers what to do until Booker wakes up, before settling on taking her boots and stockings off. She strips down to her chemise and climbs into bed on the other side of Booker. Curling onto her side, she watches his face, the crinkles in his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest. She’s itching to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and pull him close. To reassure him that he’s safe here with her; that he can let her take care of him every now and then. They don’t touch nearly as much as that first night, always skirting around each other like nervous teenagers. He’s afraid that she’s too fragile for him. She’s terrified of what might happen if she lets herself indulge in his touch. It’s like a dance between the two of them, but it’s nowhere near the kind of dancing Elizabeth wants to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter for _weeks,_ because I wasn't sure if it was too early to introduce an explicit chapter or not. Though the actual act isn't terribly explicit, since I think these two need to burn a little longer. Which also gives me more time to figure out how to write sex scenes better. But at least I've earned that Explicit rating now, huh?  
>     
> I've also been trying to keep to a semi schedule of updating once a week, but I forgot last week, so I might post the next chapter later this week. It's ready to go, but I just want to make sure I'm ahead of myself enough to keep up with an update once a week.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some smutty handjobs!

Booker’s nosebleeds start on a Tuesday.

He staggers home from the bar just as Elizabeth is getting dressed for work. He stinks of cheap whiskey and cigarettes, and she hopes it’s just the residual smell of the bar itself and not from his own consumption. He grunts a “good morning” to Elizabeth before stripping off his jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack Elizabeth bought with her first paycheck. She senses something’s wrong with that simple gesture; Booker never hung his coat up before without her yelling at him—he always grumbled about how the apartment needed other necessities before a coat rack.

“Booker?” she presses, abandoning the ribbon she was tying to move over to him. He sways slightly, before sitting gingerly down on the bed. “Are you drunk?”

Booker shakes his head, and abruptly hisses at the movement. He grabs at his temple, and Elizabeth kneels down next to him. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and his face has gone deathly pale. She sees the blood from his nose and knows what’s happening a moment before he speaks.

“I don’t….Liz—“ he reaches out for her, and she takes his hand in hers, her other hand moving up to rub his neck.

“I’m right here, Booker. It’s okay. You’re mind’s trying to catch up with this universe. Stay with me, it’ll pass, I promise.” She doesn’t think he can hear her anymore. His hands are shaking in hers and she can feel the shiver that runs down his spine. His eyes are distant, as if lost in memory. He’s reliving some other past of himself, but she can’t tell which one until—

“There was no baby,” he mumbles, and Elizabeth’s blood runs cold. She remembers this, the past that Booker’s seeing. She was there, but wasn’t, as Booker gave the baby to Lutece. If he’s remembering this now, then—

Elizabeth begins to panic. He can’t find out. Not now. They’re already so distant, and she can hardly stand it. If he were to remember the rest of the constants and what happened to Anna— 

“Booker, listen to me. You’ve got to come back. You’re not there. You’re in Paris, remember. We live in Montmartre. I work at a bookshop. You bartend at the Chateau Laurent. We escaped Columbia and killed Songbird. Booker, please…” she holds his head in her hands, searching his eyes for any kind of recognition. _Please don’t remember_. She watches as Booker blinks rapidly, and breathes a sigh of relief when she catches the recognition in his eyes. He furrows his brow. 

“Sorry. I don’t know what happened,” he croaks out, rubbing his temple again while Elizabeth reaches over to bedside table, pulling the drawer open for a handkerchief. She holds it up to his nose to catch the blood.

“It’s alright. You’re okay now. Tilt up,” She guides his head back and places his hand over the handkerchief before rising to her feet. 

“I remember…a crib. But it doesn’t make any sense. There was never a baby,” he says it like a question, but she doesn’t think she’s meant to answer. Still, she fumbles her way through an explanation as she crosses to the washroom.

“I don’t think there’s really any rhyme or reason to the visions we see,” she runs the faucet over a small towel, dampening it with cold water. “I still see futures that never happened, or maybe happened to other versions of myself. But they’re not who I am now, and I can’t imagine how the futures I’ve seen could actually _be_ my future." 

“You think that’s what happening? I’m seeing the past of some alternate version of myself?”

_No._ “Maybe,” she lies, placing the cool cloth on Booker’s forehead. She gently pushes him back down onto the bed. He tries to swat her hands away.

“I can take care of myself, Liz,” he grumbles, but she scoffs and unties his boots, pulling them off one by one.

“Liar. I’m going to tell Madame Beaumont to let me have the day off,”

“You don’t have to—“

“I do, Booker,” she gives him a stern look, challenging him to argue with her. He sighs and lets his head fall back on the pillow in defeat. Elizabeth goes to grab her coat from the rack, and hears Booker mumble something about not being a kid, and she smiles to herself as she closes the door behind her.

Madame Beaumont is beside herself when she hears that Booker has fallen ill. Elizabeth has the sneaking suspicion she might be infatuated with him, even though she has never met him. She only knows that he’s the older gentleman living with Elizabeth, and that seems to be enough for her to form some kind of attachment by proxy. Whether she thinks the two of them are lovers, or simply living together, Elizabeth has no idea, but she suspects by the way Madame Beaumont shoves a basket of fresh pastries in her arms that it may be the latter. She goes as far as to suggest a nearby pharmacy that has the best herbal remedies before Elizabeth has to insist that she leave to take care of her patient.

When she finally returns to the apartment, Booker is passed out on the bed, the rest of his clothes thrown on the floor, sweat beading on his bare chest. She had never seen him sleep with so little on, and she flushes at the amount of skin she can see. She turns to store the pastries into the little cupboard beside the stove, then shucks her coat off and places it on the rack. She goes to the bed and feels the cloth on Booker’s head, feels the heat radiating off of it, and takes it into the washroom. She soaks the cloth in cool water once more and returns it back to Booker’s forehead.

Elizabeth considers what to do until Booker wakes up, before settling on taking her boots and stockings off. She strips down to her chemise and climbs into bed on the other side of Booker. Curling onto her side, she watches his face, the crinkles in his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest. She’s itching to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and pull him close. To reassure him that he’s safe here with her; that he can let her take care of him every now and then. They don’t touch nearly as much as that first night, always skirting around each other like nervous teenagers. He’s afraid that she’s too fragile for him. She’s terrified of what might happen if she lets herself indulge in his touch. It’s like a dance between the two of them, but it’s nowhere near the kind of dancing Elizabeth wants to do.

She slides closer to Booker, resting her head on his shoulder. He doesn’t wake, so she cautiously lays her hand on top of his chest. The warmth from his body seeps into hers, and she sighs at the feeling. She begins to slowly dance her fingers across his chest, up and down, lazily following the peaks and valleys. She grazes over the numerous scars, ones that she doesn’t know the origin, whether from Columbia or Pinkerton’s or Wounded Knee. Now they both have scars to match, but hers are worn on the inside of her mind instead of on her skin. They’re both damaged and irrevocably broken, and isn’t that why they’re here? Together in Paris, they’re the only ones who can fix the other, or at least tolerate the levels of trauma and scars that they both carry. Practically made for each other.

She catches her thumb on a scar just above his nipple, and she hears Booker’s breath hitch. Her eyes flick up to his face, searching for some sign of his discomfort. He’s breathing heavier, but there’s no indication of pain in his features. Gingerly, she brushes her thumb over the dusky skin, and again his breathing quickens. He doesn’t wake, and Elizabeth continues her ministrations along his chest, watching his face in rapture. On her next pass over his nipple, Booker lets out a low moan, and Elizabeth holds her breath, letting the sound wash over her. She’s been deprived of the warmth of another human being for so long. He’s the only person she’s ever had close contact with, the only one who knows her in a remotely intimate way. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? 

Her hand tracks down Booker abdomen, and she can hear the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears as her fingertips just graze the edge of his undergarments. She hesitates, and looks back to Booker’s face, flushed from arousal now.

She’s unsure of exactly how to proceed. Of course, she knows the basic mechanics of what she wants to do; she’s read enough biology and anatomy books to handle that. But this is Booker, and she wants to make sure she makes him feel good. Not to mention the problem with him being unconscious. She doesn’t want to assume that he would consent to any kind of sexual act when she doesn’t even know if he thinks of her in that way. 

Her hand rests there at the edge of his underclothes, and lifts her face to his. He’s still sleeping soundly, and she just wants him to wake up! But at the same time, she knows that if he does, she’ll be too afraid to continue her ministrations. She leans down towards his face, bypassing his lips and brushing her mouth over the stubble of his jaw. He lets out a moan at the touch, and the sound sends a shot of warmth through Elizabeth’s body. She scrapes her teeth along his jaw, moving upwards until she nips at the skin just between his ear and jawbone. 

A long groan escapes from Booker’s mouth, and she feels the sheets beneath her tighten as he pulls them into a fist. There’s the feel of a coiling in her stomach and the same warmth as before, settling between her legs. She bites at the skin again, her hand tickling the hair below his bellybutton.

“Liz,” her name is said as a moan, and her brain nearly explodes from the sound of it on his lips. She feels her breath quicken, and she watches as Booker’s eyes sliver open. He looks at her with half-lidded eyes, and Elizabeth moves to bite at his ear, her hand slowly slipping down past the waistband. His stomach spasms on another moan.

“Tell me, Booker,” she whispers in his ear, and she’s not sure when her voice became so desperate, “Tell me you want this.” _Please. I need you to want this_. 

She feels his hand curl into her hair and clasp onto her scalp, the sensation traveling straight to her groin. She lets her left hand slide up and wrap around the back of his neck, grounding her as she waits for his reply. 

“God, yes,” he groans, and Elizabeth moans at the answer, shoving her hand down his pants. Her fingers graze his erect cock, and he sucks in a breath at the touch. She wraps her hands around his member and begins to slowly stroke down the shaft. As she comes back up, she rubs the pad of her thumb over the slit, and Booker’s hips jerk up into her hand in response. Taking the encouragement, Elizabeth increases her speed, pumping up and down along his cock, twisting her hand on the upstroke. She collects the precome beading at the tip on her fingers, and uses it to glide her way back down.

She focuses on her task while she feels Booker’s face turn, breathing hard into her neck and tugging on her hair. Her hips start to move in time with his, gyrating against air, and she can’t stand it; she needs more friction. She lifts her left leg over Booker’s right, flattening herself along his side, his hips perfectly in line with her groin. She cries out at the first sensation of pressure against her mound, and she squeezes Booker’s cock in response, granting her a low moan from his lips. She pumps her hand faster, grinding against his leg, the two of them breathing in each other’s air. His eyes are still half lidded, and Elizabeth is sure he’s still mostly asleep, but he pants into her neck and tightens his grip on her hair, his other hand still tangled and fisted in the bed sheet. 

“Elizabeth, I—” his sentence ends on a groan when she squeezes his cock again, thumb rubbing against the underside of the crown. His hips keep jerking, and he must know he’s close, because he lets go of the bed sheet and reaches over, his right hand fumbling under her drawers and between Elizabeth’s legs until his fingers brush over her clit.

She tenses and lets out a silent scream, her nails digging into Booker’s neck as she feels her orgasm rush through her. Her legs are quaking, and dear God, why hadn’t she ever felt this before? Every nerve in her body is on fire and she thinks she might die any second as her muscles tighten. She shivers as the sensation takes over her, and her rhythmic stroking stutters and stalls. It’s altogether too much pressure and not enough, and she clamps her thighs tighter around Booker’s hand as the feeling of orgasm begin to subside. She can feel the adrenaline sparking around her body, and she has to remind herself of the task at hand, squeezing Booker’s cock to set her back in motion. 

She pulls on Booker’s cock once, twice, three times with a final swipe over the crown, and she watches his eyes squeeze shut, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he comes all over her hand and himself. His stomach spasms and he groans into her neck one last time before he collapses back onto the bed, completely spent.

Elizabeth is still trying to turn her brain back on and breathe at a normal rate, her hand still lazily stroking Booker’s now soft member. She rolls onto her back and looks up at the cracked ceiling of their apartment, the heat from their bodies drifting up into the cool air. Booker’s breathing has slowed enough to tell her that he’s fallen asleep again.

Elizabeth struggles to sit up and lean over his sleeping form. The wet cloth she had placed on his forehead had fallen back against the headboard, and she grabs it, wiping her hand and then Booker’s stomach clean. She stands up from the bed and walks into the washroom, turning the faucet to hot and letting the water flow over the soiled cloth. She drops the wet cloth into the laundry basket next to the sink aimlessly, before the sudden rush of saliva gathers in her mouth. She rushes and leans over the toilet a moment before she vomits into the bowl.

The smell of the stale city water hits her hard, and she gags over the toilet, bile rising in her throat. Her heart is pounding in her ears, both from the exhaustion and from the creeping horror at what she had done. She rests her head on the porcelain seat and breathes through her mouth.

She should’ve stopped herself. Bottled up her feelings and forgot about them. Because it didn’t matter whether the feelings between her and Booker were mutual. If he knew—if he had any idea… 

Elizabeth grabs onto the tub to leverage herself to a standing position, her arms and legs trembling from the nausea. She turns the sink faucet on, cupping her hands under the flow and swallowing down handful after handful of water. The reflection that stares back at her in the mirror is pale as a ghost, and she almost laughs at the realization that she has a first-hand experience to make the comparison.

Crossing to the door that leads back to the bedroom, Elizabeth looks over to Booker’s still sleeping form. His face isn’t flushed anymore, and the sweat has dried onto his skin. He looks well, as if whatever fever took hold had vanished. He looks perfect as ever.

Elizabeth moves to the bed, halting as she reaches the edge. She wants to crawl back in, cradle herself into his embrace, and erase the last half hour from her mind. But she can’t help the feeling of absolute dread that overcomes her. She pulls the small quilt from the bottom of the bed and crosses back over to the love seat. Wrapping herself in the quilt, she curls up onto the small sofa, keeping watch over Booker until the creaking radiator lulls her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bêtise: A small or silly act of naughtiness by a child. ___


	5. Épater les bourgeois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She sees him a moment before he does, across the expanse of the dance hall. His hair is dark and curly, parted at the side and gelled down to perfection. He looks tall, at least in comparison to the companions surrounding him. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbows, a pair of dark blue sleeve garters stretching around his biceps. His waistcoat matches the garter, a blue silk with buttons that catch the light even at this distance. He smokes a cigarette, laughing at a joke one of his friends makes, before he turns out towards the dance floor. His eyes pass over Elizabeth and over the rest of the crowd, and she’s about to turn away, but she catches his double take, and he seems to stop there, staring at her, mouth slightly agape._   
>    
>  _The stranger smiles at her and raises his champagne glass, as if toasting. Elizabeth gives a small nod in return, and she watches as he leans over to speak into the ear of his companion, his eyes never leaving her. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when the next chapter will be posted after this. Unfortunately my posting caught up with my writing, so I'm still working on the next chapter. Hopefully I'll get enough down time to get ahead soon.
> 
> And yes, I did name Madame Beaumont after a Dragon Age character.

Madame Beaumont invites Elizabeth to a dance hall later in the week. She insists upon Booker joining them, and when Elizabeth tries to tell her that he’s never been one for socializing or dancing, Madame Beaumont tuts at her and states that even the hermits of Paris come out to dance. Elizabeth is certain that the gleam in her eye has absolutely nothing to do with dancing, unless it’s one performed horizontally.

Booker has barely spoken to her the whole week, and Elizabeth worries what it might mean. She’s not sure if it’s because he’s angry about what they did the other day, or if he doesn’t remember. She doesn’t know which option is worse. The uncertainty leaves Elizabeth on edge, and she elects to not bring it up. But he tenses more quickly when she touches him, even when it’s a simple graze of the shoulder, and Elizabeth has never felt more ashamed.

She brings up Madame Beaumont’s invitation over dinner, quiche lorraine that Booker had Elizabeth translate from a french cookbook. He stares at her as if she’s gone mad, chewing slowly before answering.

“I don’t dance.”

“I know that,” Elizabeth rolls her eyes, “but Madame Beaumont insists that you join us. She’s been harboring an infatuation for you, and if you don’t come, she’ll just keep badgering me every day about it.”

Booker raises his eyebrow. “She’s infatuated with me?”

“She’s sixty five.” He recoils at the statement, and Elizabeth can’t hide her smile.

“Then I’m definitely not going.”

“Please, Booker. I’ll never hear the end of it! Besides, you promised me.”

“Promised you what?”

“You promised that if we went to Paris, you’d go dancing with me.” She hates to bring up Columbia, feels like she’s guilting him, but she’s so desperate for some interaction with him.

“That was before you knocked me out cold with a wrench,” Booker glares at her, but there’s no malice behind it. Elizabeth shrugs.

“Semantics.” Booker continues to glare, but after a moment, he sighs and passes his hand over his face.

“I’m not dancing with your boss. I gotta draw the line somewhere.” He relents. Elizabeth grins widely and leans over the small table.

“Thank you, Booker,” she kisses his cheek and feels him tense underneath. Quickly, she pulls back and watches him cautiously. Booker swallows hard, his face flushed red, and Elizabeth mentally kicks herself.

Booker gathers up his plate and takes it over to the sink, avoiding her gaze.

“I have to go to work,” he grabs his coat, and Elizabeth nods mutely. She hears the door open, his feet crossing the threshold, then the click of the latch.

“Okay,” she mumbles out to the empty room. The longest conversation the two of them have had in a week, and she screws it up in an instant. Elizabeth groans into her hands, frustrated and angry at her own foolishness, before she stands and takes her own plate to the sink.

The dance hall that Madame Beaumont takes her and Booker to is located in the heart of Montparnasse, the “epicenter of art” as Madame Beaumont calls it. She had gifted Elizabeth a new dress for the occasion, a cream colored silk dress with an asymmetrical lace and chiffon overlay, worn with a salmon colored sash, belted at the waist with the excess trailing down to her hem. A pair of silk opera gloves cover her to the elbow. It reminds Elizabeth vaguely of the Grecian chitons she read about, and the freedom of wearing something without the aid of a corset or heavy petticoat is one she welcomes.

The chandeliers overhead seem to twinkle like stars, their light refracting off the high ceiling, pressed with tin. Massive vaulted windows line the hall in every direction, and silk sashes arch their way around the perimeter and across the dance floor below. Round tables, uniform to the one that Elizabeth sits at, cover the raised pavilion that lines the perimeter of the floor below, where several couples dance to the sound of some ragtime tune.

Elizabeth turns away from the gleam of the dance floor to smile brightly at Booker. He forces a smile back and tugs at the collar of his shirt. Madame Beaumont had forced him into one of Gregorie’s old tuxedos, a crisp white shirt, black waistcoat, trousers, and matching tails jacket. Booker outright refused to wear the satin bowtie that came with the outfit, opting for his own red necktie worn in a loose Windsor knot. Elizabeth spares a passing thought on whether the thing has been cleaned of blood or not. 

Booker had abandoned the tails coat on the back of his chair within seconds of sitting down, and he’s unbuttoned the waistcoat. It would be insulting to Madame Beaumont, Elizabeth amuses, if she wasn’t preoccupied with batting her lashes at him like a schoolgirl. She would find it hilarious, the way Booker squirms under her boss’ gaze, if she weren’t so jealous.

A smartly dressed waiter comes around, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two flutes in another. He speaks quickly in french, too fast for Elizabeth to translate, and Madame Beaumont replies. She turns to Booker as the waiter places the glasses on the table and pops the cork from the champagne.

“What do you drink, Monsieur Dewitt? Sherry, whiskey?” She asks in her thick French accent.

“I don’t think I should, Madame—“ 

“Please, Monsieur Dewitt, call me Aveline,” she smiles sweetly at him before turning back to the waiter. Elizabeth hears her ask for whiskey, and the waiter gives a curt nod before vanishing into the crowd. She chews her lip to stop herself from commenting, reaching for her glass of champagne.

The three of them sit and listen to the music playing, Madame Beaumont— _Aveline—_ attempting to start up a conversation with Booker. He politely answers her questions about his work at the bar while she sits in rapt attention. Elizabeth drinks her champagne in silence. She wishes so badly to drag Booker onto the dance floor and escape the awkwardness of it all, but she’s not sure how he would react. She sighs and looks out to the dance floor, to the swirling colors of silk dresses and smart shoes.

She sees him a moment before he does, across the expanse of the dance hall. His hair is dark and curly, parted at the side and gelled down to perfection. He looks tall, at least in comparison to the companions surrounding him. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbows, a pair of dark blue sleeve garters stretching around his biceps. His waistcoat matches the garter, a blue silk with buttons that catch the light even at this distance. He smokes a cigarette, laughing at a joke one of his friends makes, before he turns out towards the dance floor. His eyes pass over Elizabeth and over the rest of the crowd, and she’s about to turn away, but she catches his double take, and he seems to stop there, staring at her, mouth slightly agape.

The stranger smiles at her and raises his champagne glass, as if toasting. Elizabeth gives a small nod in return, and she watches as he leans over to speak into the ear of his companion, his eyes never leaving her.

“Elizabeth, what are you looking at?” Elizabeth snaps her head back to Aveline and Booker, the former looking as if waiting for a new piece of gossip. Booker looks absolutely miserable.

“Nothing. Just watching the dancers. I’ve only been dancing once before, so it’s all still new to me,” she glances at Booker, and he in turns takes a drink from his whiskey. Elizabeth sours, mentally promising herself to chew him out later for drinking.

Aveline is looking out towards the floor now, a secret smile playing on her lips. “Well, _mon petit oiseau_ , you may yet have your chance.” 

Elizabeth opens her mouth to question, but she’s interrupted by a decidedly male voice clearing his throat. She looks to her left to see the young man from across the room standing at the edge of the table, grinning from ear to ear. Booker’s face goes dark in an instant.

“ _Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,”_ His french is awful, and Elizabeth can hear the British accent underneath the dreadful pronunciation. He nods to Booker and Aveline, “ _Monsieur, Madame. Je m’appelle William Thomson._ Uhhh…” his brow creases in concentration, and Elizabeth has half a mind to let him continue with his attempt at french, but decides to spare him.

“ _Bonsoir, Monsieur Thomson._ But I’m not French. So there’s no need to embarrass yourself further,” she smiles coyly at him, and he laughs bashfully.

“Thank goodness. It’s a beautiful language, but I seem to muck it up every time I attempt it,” he smiles brightly at her, then at Booker, who glares back. He hesitantly turns back to Elizabeth, nervously eyeing Booker. 

“I was just wondering, Miss, if you’d care to dance. With me, of course. Because I’m certain you wouldn’t have come here if you weren’t planning on dancing at some point.” He blushes, and Elizabeth nearly jumps out of her seat, desperate to escape the awkward atmosphere surrounding their table.

“I don’t think that’s—“ Booker starts to grumble, but Elizabeth gives him a swift kick under the table. “Ow! Jesus Chri—“

“I would love to dance, Mister Thomson,” Elizabeth bounces onto her feet, looping her arm into his.

“Elizabeth—“ Booker starts, warning evident in his voice. She narrows her eyes at him.

“I’ll be right back, Booker. It’s just one dance.” She all but drags William down the steps of the pavilion and onto the dance floor, ignoring Booker and Aveline behind her.

William twirls her around before wrapping his arm around her waist, his other hand taking hers. He leads her into a waltz, swaying and stepping to the brass band playing. Elizabeth grins like a child up into his warm brown eyes.

“So, I suppose Elizabeth would be your name?” he inquires, nodding back towards the pavilion, “Unless it’s some secret code name you have with your friend.”

Elizabeth laughs, “No, it’s Elizabeth. And don’t mind Booker, he’s just…protective.”

“I could see that. I thought I might not escape this place with my head intact.” William spins her out, her skirt twirling around her legs, before being pulled back towards him. He never misses a single step of the waltz.

“You’re good at this,” she notes, “are you a professional?” 

William laughs heartily, “You must not go dancing that much if you think I’m good. It took me years of counting out loud and dancing with my mother for me to even manage this.”

“So what do you then, Mister Thomson? Since according to you, you’re not a dancer, and according to your french, you’re not anything that requires much talking. At least here in Paris, that is."

“Yes, well. Thank you again for saving me that embarrassment,” He chuckles, “I’m a writer. I graduated this past spring from Cambridge.”

“A writer! _Quel surprise,_ ” Elizabeth grins as they travel around the dance floor. She can feel the breeze from their momentum as it tosses her hair around and picks up her skirts. “I work at a bookstore. Down in Montmarte.”

“Really? What are the chances, a writer and bookshop girl meeting? It’s almost like destiny, Miss Elizabeth. Do you believe in destiny?”

 _You have no idea_ , she thinks. But she smiles instead as she spins out again. She glances over the pavilion, and notices Booker, still sitting at the table with Madame Beaumont, nursing his drink while she appears to flirt mercilessly with him.

“A bookstore seems a bit quaint for a girl such as yourself, though,” She turns back to William, and he grins widely back.

“A girl such as myself?” Elizabeth tries to sound coy, looking up at his face through the fringe of her lashes, “And what kind of girl is that?”

The color in William’s cheeks rises exponentially, but he pulls her closer. “Beautiful. Graceful. Much better at french than myself,” he chuckles, “You’re the type of girl that ends up in one of those moving pictures, rather than filing books away.”

Elizabeth feels the heat in her face rise, and she mumbles out a quick thanks before focusing back on their dancing. They’ve traversed the entire room, and the heels she borrowed are beginning to pinch.

“Are you here long or just visiting?” she can feel her breath quickening from the constant movement, her face hot from exertion.

“I’m looking to stay, actually,” William smiles as the band plays the final notes of the song, “I’m just need to find a decent flat to rent.”

The two spin around once more, and Elizabeth finds herself grabbing onto Williams hands in excitement, a brilliant idea coming to her. “We rented from Monsieur Devereaux. He’s a wonderful man, and he has some of the cheapest rooms available! You should look him up in the paper!” She feels excitement run through her like electricity. To know someone in this city that was young like her, and one so handsome! It was almost too much for her to hope. William smiles brightly, and Elizabeth feels almost faint, like some silly schoolgirl. _Stop that_ , she admonishes herself.

“Perhaps I’ll look into it. If it gives me an excuse to see you again, Elizabeth.” She flushes in response. She reminds herself that she should stop blushing so much around handsome men. The band picks up another song, this time with a fiddle at the forefront. Elizabeth opens her mouth to respond, but she stops.

She knows this song. An upbeat jig, singing through her veins like a ghost passing through. She’s danced to this song before. Her heart begins to quicken, and she can practically feel the color drain from her face. How can they be playing this song here? Now?

_Dance with me, Mr. Dewitt!_

Elizabeth knows the pain is coming before it pierces her head like a knife. She grabs onto William’s forearms, trying to steady herself as the doors open around her. Distantly, like an echo, she can hear William’s panicked voice calling her name. But she can’t see him anymore.

_She’s on a boardwalk, spinning and twirling with the bathers, laughing at the joy she feels. Freedom feels like an ocean breeze lifting her skirts. The sun beats down on her face, as if welcoming her to the world, after years locked in the darkness. And at the end of the boardwalk, she sees him, sand in his hair and salt in his skin. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, but she reaches out towards him, beckoning him to share in her revelry._

_There’s a different room, dark and hollow. She can feel their eyes on her and Booker as she reaches for his hand. He doesn’t dance, but she’ll make him if she has to. The spectators whisper and mock through their rabbit eyes, but she watches his face instead. She can feel his caution in the way he dances, and she can’t blame him. One misstep and—_

_She feels the jolt of electricity as Cohen sends a shockwave through them both. She digs her nails into Booker’s arm, and she can hear her heart stutter in her ears. They’re falling, falling—_

Strong hands squeeze her arms as Elizabeth comes to. She blinks, the twinkle of lights overhead nearly blinding her. But it’s more than just lights…

“Elizabeth,” she looks down from the ceiling and her eyes catch on green pools, swimming in worry. She feels drunk and lightheaded, and she reaches out to his face, grazing her hands against his stubble.

“Booker?” she’s so tired, and she can’t remember where she is.

“I’m right here, Elizabeth. You’re okay.” He’s trying to sound calm, but she can hear the fear in his voice. She looks over his shoulder and notices the handsome face of a man, gaunt with worry. William. Her memory floods back to her, and as Elizabeth looks around, she registers the dance hall floor, its patrons pressed against the walls, whispering to each other as they watch her and Booker on the floor. It’s only when she sits up that she realizes she must have fainted earlier.

“Booker, the music. It’s the same—“

“I know, I heard it too.” She clutches onto his lapels, her knuckles white. Dazed, she looks back up at the tin ceiling, the lights still glittering.

“Booker, the doors…” she croaks out, eyes fixed above her. He follows her sightline, and she can feel the moment he tenses.

The light from the chandeliers glitters above, but scattered across the ceiling are tiny tears, rippling and pulsing and shimmering. They move as if breathing, and Elizabeth can nearly see through every single one. She feels nausea roll through her, and she clings to Booker as he stands, pulling her up with him.

“Shit. We need to get you out of here. Can you walk?” she nods mutely, fixing her eyes on the floor while he wraps his arm around her, pulling her close. Elizabeth hears William step forward more than she can see him.

“Elizabeth, are you—“

“Back off, Romeo. She’s not feeling well,” Booker practically growls at him, pushing his way through the crowd. Elizabeth doesn’t speak until they’ve reached the hallway that leads out to the street.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispers, and while he doesn’t respond, she knows that he heard her. She knows he’s thinking the same.

Booker hails a taxi from the street, and as they pile in, she leans her head against his shoulder, his hand warm and soothing against her back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, tears beginning to prick her eyes. But she refuses to cry. Not for something so ridiculous. “I’m sorry I ruined tonight.”

“Are you kidding?” Booker scoffs, and she feels the sound move through him, “You saved me from dancing with your infatuated boss.”

Elizabeth smiles.

* * *

Booker boils water for tea once they reach home. Elizabeth sits on the love seat, every part of her body feeling as heavy as stones. The gas lamp next to the bed hurts her eyes, so she closes them and leans her head back. She keeps hearing the music in her head, that song from Battleship Bay. It reverberates through her bones, and she can’t help the prickling at the back of her eyes. She’s never going to escape it.

“How did they know that song, Booker? There’s no reason for them to have known it.”

She hears his shoes move across the room, and she peaks an eye open to see him offering her a teacup. She takes it with a small smile, bringing the cup to her lips.

“I don’t know, Liz. But we know Fink’s brother stole songs that he heard through tears. Maybe that’s what it was. Just a coincidence.” Elizabeth scoffs and shakes her head.

“Do you really believe in coincidences anymore, Booker?”

“No,” he laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “But if there’s one thing I’m halfway decent at, it’s figuring things like this out.”

 _Not everything._ “I can’t get it out of my head. It keeps repeating, over and over in perfect clarity. I can’t think of anything else.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, another headache starting up from annoyance rather than visions of the future.

“How’s your head?” Booker yanks his necktie loose, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt down to his collarbone.

“The pain’ll pass,” Elizabeth shrugs as she stares down at the swirling tea in her cup. She barely notices Booker moving in her peripherals until he’s kneeling in front of her, reaching for one of her shoes and unbuckling the strap. She glares at him.

“I’m not an invalid, Booker.”

He snorts and tosses the shoe off to the side, “Sure you’re not. I just imagined you fainting in front of an entire dance hall and nearly opening twenty tears at the same time.” Elizabeth groans internally at the embarrassment, leaning her head back to look up at the ceiling.

“God, don’t remind me! I must’ve scared poor William half to death.”

Booker yanks off the other shoe. “I’m sure _William_ is fine. He’s probably drinking absinthe with his pals and has already forgotten the whole thing.” She can practically hear the eye-roll when he says William’s name.

“All I wanted was to go dancing, and of course, I screw it up with this—whatever this thing is,” she grumbles, curling her knees up and hugging them to her chest. She pulls absentmindedly on the toes of her stocking, stretching them out before releasing them.  Booker takes her hands in his and taps on her foot.

“Leg up,” Elizabeth obeys, placing her foot in his lap. She hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s doing, until she watches his hand go up her skirt, and her eyes go wide.

“Booker—” She tries to pull her leg back, but he holds onto her heel firmly, keeping her in place.

“Will you quit it? I’m not gonna do anything,” his hands say otherwise, as it trails up the length of her leg. He pauses when he reaches her garter clip, but a moment later of fussing, her stocking is unhooked. He pulls the stocking back down, his knuckles grazing the skin of her leg, sending goosebumps all over Elizabeth’s body. The process is repeated on the other side, and Booker tosses her stockings to the side, her bare feet still resting in his lap.

“Booker, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer, but holds one foot in his calloused hands, thumbs resting along the arch. Elizabeth is on the verge of snapping at him when he _pushes_ against her arch, punching an unflattering groan from her mouth. She feels his thumbs push harder against the muscles in her foot, and she grabs onto the arms of the love seat, digging her nails into the fabric.

“ _God,_ that feels amazing,” she practically moans, and she can hear Booker chuckling to himself, the smug bastard. His thumb brushes a particularly sensitive part of her foot, and she yelps out, yanking her foot violently out of Booker’s grip.

“Will you hold still!” He grumbles, but she can see the satisfied glint in his eye.

“I will if you don’t _tickle_ me like that!” She tries her best to glare at him, but his smirk tells her it’s not very effective. He grabs hold of her other foot and begins to massage it.

“Just relax,” he orders, and Elizabeth tries to sink lower into the love seat. She watches his careful fingers rub up and down the sole of her foot, digging into the arch and pushing against the muscles there. She can feel her eyes beginning to droop at the hypnotizing motion.

“I just wanted to go dancing,” she mumbles again.

“I know,” Booker replies, never taking his eyes off of his task, “And we will, Liz. Don’t worry about it.”

“Promise?” she sounds like a child to her own ears, but she can’t help the pleading tone as she starts to slip into unconsciousness.

Booker doesn’t speak for a long time. And then, quiet as can be—

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Épater les bourgeois ___: to deliberately shock people who have conventional values. Literally “to amaze the middle class”.


	6. Nostalgie de la Boue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The color rises in Booker’s face, and he clears his throat once, twice. He glances away from her, at the floor, at the lamp in the corner, at a spot above her head. It lasts for mere seconds before his gaze continues to go back to Elizabeth’s bare breasts. This isn’t like the last time he saw her naked. This isn’t about her being vulnerable in front of him; a child in need of care. He doesn’t need to protect her. This is her asking. And all he needs to do is take. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally am a full chapter ahead in my writing, which gives me a nice cushion in case I fall behind again. Sorry for the short chapter this time around; I would've combine this one and the next, but it didn't quite flow enough to put as one chapter.  
> Also, sorry, but Booker's barely in the next chapter. I'll make up for it, I promise!

_She doesn’t know what to do. Any second now, the swarm of Splicers will come and descend upon her. She can’t get out of the lab, but she needs to find someplace to hide. Some kind of advantage point._

_Andrew Ryan is mocking her with his ridiculous countdown. She’s not a child anymore. She doesn’t need to be given warnings or chided on how weak she is. How fragile and stupid she was to trust Atlas._

_But she’s not fragile, hasn’t been for a long time. She’s made of steel and marble, and she won’t break nearly as easily as they think she will. And she certainly doesn’t trust Atlas to hold his end of the bargain. At the end of the day, only one of them gets out of this alive. She’s not going to be a rube. No matter what anyone says._

_Still, as the lights flash in tandem and the sirens blare, she finds her breath getting shorter. She’s handled a select few Splicers, but always when they’ve been off guard, and she was able to get the upper hand. This time, they’re ready for her. And she doesn’t know how many Ryan will send through._

_She backs away from the vigor trap she’s set, and clutches the small radio close to her chest. Her hands are trembling, and she has to constantly remind herself to breathe deep. Don’t panic. The fear continues to creep along her spine, and she finds it harder to bottle up in the way she’s always done._

_“Booker,” she whispers out into the silence, “I’m scared,”_

_There’s a small crackle on the radio, and she knows it’s not him, she_ knows _it’s all in her head. But it’s so good to hear his voice, at long last._

_“They’ll underestimate you, Elizabeth. People always do.”_

Elizabeth wakes with a start, gasping for the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her hands feel clammy, and sweat trickles down from her forehead. Despite her own sweating, she shivers in the chill of the bedroom. The patter of raindrops hit the window and the roof above them, a staccato rhythm that always used to soothe her as a child. She finds nothing soothing in the drumming now. It feels like a countdown.

_Thirty seconds. Do you know the value of the shark?_

Booker shifts in the bed next to her, and she can hear his deep breathing, just on the verge of snoring. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, trying to focus on his breath to ground her. She reminds herself again that the present is real, that her visions never happened. Never will happen. She’s so tired of reminding herself.

When sleep doesn’t return, Elizabeth shoves the covers off of her body and stands on the cold hardwood floor. Maybe the solid ground will help her regain her control. She paces back and forth in front of the window, breathing deeply to calm her nerves. A flash of lightning startles her to look at the window. She can see her reflection in the glass, a ghostly apparition of herself. Raindrops travel down the window, leaving streaks on the glass that get washed off immediately by the continuous downpour.

Elizabeth moves closer to the window, tracking the path of a raindrop as it travels down. She braces her hands against the frame, leaning towards the cool dampness of the glass. She can practically feel the patter of the rain as it hits the pane, and without thinking, she pushes the window up. The curtains billow violently around her, and her arms and face are suddenly attacked by the mist of the rain. The water drips onto the floor and puddles around her bare feet, but Elizabeth pays no mind. Instead, she leans her head outside the window, closing her eyes and letting the rain drench her head and hair.

She feels the tension in her shoulders start to release under the rainfall, and she smiles to herself at the chill that travels up her body. Maybe she’ll climb out the window, out onto the fire escape. Climb up to the roof to breathe in the cool evening air. Dance with herself in the rain. Maybe then she could finally escape from the stifling apartment and the dreams that won’t leave her alone.

“Elizabeth?” she turns around quickly at his voice, smacking her head on the window frame as she leans back into the room.

“Ow!”

“Are you okay?” Booker throws the sheets off of his body and the bed, crossing quickly to Elizabeth while she rubs the back of her head.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” she waves him off when he tries to reach up to her. She turns away from him and closes the window behind her. The apartment swallows the sound of the storm outside, silent save for the muffled patter of rain returning to the window.

“Can’t sleep?” His voice sounds like a question, but when she looks up into his eyes, she can see the certainty and understanding. She nods, her hair dripping water onto her now shivering shoulders. “You know, in my experience, catching pneumonia typically doesn’t solve the whole insomnia issue.” 

Elizabeth wraps her arms around herself, rubbing them to get warm. “I was having a nightmare. I just…needed to get away from it." 

Booker nods, “They don’t go away. Been having them since Wounded Knee. They fade and become less frequent, more sporadic. But they never go away permanently.”

“Anyway to make them fade faster?”

“Yeah,” he smirks at her, “Alcohol usually does the trick.”

Elizabeth laughs without any real humor. “Then pour me a strong one, barkeep.” 

Booker laughs, and the sound rings out in the quiet room. She feels his eyes track down her body, and she shivers again at the cold. With sudden clarity, she is reminded that her nightgown is soaked through, and when Booker’s eyes glance quickly at her chest before traveling away from her figure, she realizes her breasts are peaking from the chill of her body. In the darkness she can just make out the color rise in his cheeks before he clears his throat.

“You should put on some dry clothes. Wouldn’t want you to get sick.” He turns back to the bed, fussing with the covers to avoid looking at her again.

Elizabeth clenches her fist, stifling the aggravated scream she wants to let out. She thought that maybe with her recent episode at the dance hall, the former awkwardness of their interactions would cease to exist. Booker only touches her when he’s worried, and even then she can feel his hesitation. She briefly wonders if what happened in their apartment after the dance hall had ever actually occurred, or if she had somehow been thrown through a tear to a universe where Booker was actually affectionate towards her. Where he wasn’t afraid to skim his hands down her thighs and grind out moans with his touch.

Instead, they continue to run around in circles, barely acknowledging the tension between them and skirting around the subject altogether. It’s absolutely maddening, and Elizabeth feels on the verge of exploding. And if Booker isn’t going to do anything about it, then she will. 

“Can you pass me my chemise? It’s in the trunk,” she nods to the trunk at the foot of the bed, where they both keep their clothes. Neither of them have saved enough money for a proper dresser or armoire, but they don’t have many clothes to keep track of anyway. Booker nods, still not looking at her, and goes to open the trunk.

Elizabeth unties the top of her nightgown, making quick work of the buttons below, and lets the wet fabric fall to the floor, exposing her naked body to the chill of the room. She pushes the instinct to cover herself from her mind, and straightens her shoulders instead as Booker turns around, a cotton chemise and pair of drawers in hand.

He freezes, staring at Elizabeth with wide eyes. Seconds pass in absolute silence. She catches a glimpse of his hands tightening around the fabric he holds, and she watches his face, his eyes darting all across her form. She knows it’s the residual cold from the rain that makes her nipples harden, but she feels like her body is reacting to Booker’s gaze rather than the weather. She lifts her chin in determination.

“Something wrong?” she tries to make her voice sound as sultry as possible, but she’s unsure if it comes across as anything but pleading.

The color rises in Booker’s face, and he clears his throat once, twice. He glances away from her, at the floor, at the lamp in the corner, at a spot above her head. It lasts for mere seconds before his gaze continues to go back to Elizabeth’s bare breasts. This isn’t like the last time he saw her naked. This isn’t about her being vulnerable in front of him; a child in need of care. He doesn’t need to protect her. This is her asking. And all he needs to do is take.

Booker steps forward, the old wood floor creaking under his bare feet. Elizabeth feels her blood pounding faster with each step. Her shoulders relax, her bravado slowly disappearing as she sees the heat in his eyes. She feels a shiver run down her back in anticipation, and Booker stops in front of her, a breath away from where she so badly wants him to be.

He reaches up with his free hand, her underclothes still clutched in the other, and she closes her eyes to the warmth of his skin cradling the side of her head. She reaches up to cover his hand with her own, leaning into the touch. The desire to move his grip to her throat hits her, and she has to suppress the feeling of déjà vu.

_“Promise me, if it comes to it…you will not let him take me back.”_

_“It won’t come to that.”_

She opens her eyes to see green ones staring back. Booker’s pupils are blown wide, the irises a thin ring around the black. Elizabeth can count every line in his face, every freckle. Every scar. Her breath catches in her throat at the close proximity. She can feel the puff of his breath on her lips, and if he moved just an inch more, she would finally, _finally_ have what she’s been wanting for months.

He looks at her face and frowns. She sees the sadness in his eyes before he even speaks.

“We can’t,” he whispers, but his voice sounds wrecked.

Tears of frustration prick at the back of Elizabeth’s eyes.

“Why not?” She knows she sounds desperate, knows she sounds like a petulant child. But she can’t help the prickling thought that maybe, even subconsciously, he knows. Knows that anything between them is wrong, is sinful. But when has Booker ever cared about sin?

“We just can’t. You…you’ve been through a lot, and I can’t be…” he sighs and takes a step back, holding her undergarments in front of him. Elizabeth takes them, holding the fabric up to shield her breasts in embarrassment. The sadness in his eyes is still there, as if it kills him to deny her, “I can’t be that person for you.”

“Booker—”

“We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just…get some sleep. And you should change. You’ll get sick,” He turns back to the bed without a second glance and climbs in, pulling the cover over himself.

Elizabeth feels the tears fall down her cheeks, and she angrily wipes them away. _Pathetic_. _Don’t be an idiot_ , she berates herself. She swiftly tugs on her drawers and chemise, pausing on the ties before she lets them go, not caring if she looks scandalous or not. It won’t sway Booker’s opinion either way. She wipes at her face one last time, wicking away the residual rain and tears, before she climbs back into bed, her back turned to Booker.

She doesn’t sleep that night. And when Booker calls out for Anna in his dreams, she doesn’t bother waking him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nostalgie de la boue - literally, yearning for mud. Used to describe the feeling of being attracted to that which is depraved or below one’s station. ___


	7. S'entendre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She doesn’t know how to define them anymore. Elizabeth had always been counting on Booker sharing her affection, and the strange relationship between them would have some clear definition. Now, they’re back to what they were when he rescued her from the tower. Even less so, if Elizabeth considers the lack of communication._   
>    
>  _She’s constantly on the verge of tears every time he’s near. After all, even with the tension between them, he was still her closest and only true friend. He’s the only one who understands what she feels. How she sees the world. With her idiotic propositioning, she made sure that she would be alone again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow. This thing has close to 1000 hits. That's amazing, and thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read and give kudos and comment on this! I really appreciate the kind words. 
> 
> I have to apologize again for the lack of Booker in this chapter. It's pretty much all Liz and William, but I need to establish them for the dramatic tension! Booker will be back with all his grump in the next one, promise.

A fortnight passes, and Elizabeth has never talked so little in her entire life. Even when she was trapped in her tower, she had plenty of time to muse aloud to herself. She talked to herself when calculating ciphers and codes. She read most of her books aloud in the quiet library. She even spoke to Songbird when he came around, though he never offered anything of interest in return.

Now, even as she works and speaks to customers in the bookstore, her throat is dry and cracked from misuse. Her stomach knots whenever she makes the walk home, and she sighs in relief when she notices that Booker has left early for work. On the off chance she actually sees him, she keeps quiet and never looks his way. He responds in kind.

She doesn’t know how to define them anymore. Elizabeth had always been counting on Booker sharing her affection, and the strange relationship between them would have some clear definition. Now, they’re back to what they were when he rescued her from the tower. Even less so, if Elizabeth considers the lack of communication.

She’s constantly on the verge of tears every time he’s near. After all, even with the tension between them, he was still her closest and only true friend. He’s the only one who understands what she feels. How she sees the world. With her idiotic propositioning, she made sure that she would be alone again.

On the second Thursday since the silence between her and Booker started, Elizabeth returns home from work, her feet aching from standing around all day. She greets Monsieur Devereaux in the foyer as she moves towards the mailboxes on the far wall. She opens the small door to an empty box and shuts it again. It would be more unusual if there was an actual envelope inside; besides the bills at the end of the month, neither her nor Booker ever receive any mail. Elizabeth turns away from the mailboxes and towards the stair, where she promptly runs into another person and falls back onto the floor.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking—” she hears the voice from above her, and she snaps her head up at the familiarity. Standing there, his hair a curly mess, face flushed, a large blank canvas under his arm—

“Mister Thomson?” Elizabeth squeaks out, the blood rushing into her face at her own embarrassment.

“Miss Elizabeth! Oh god, I feel even more foolish. Here—” he leans his canvas against the wall and offers his hand. She takes it, allowing him to lift her back onto her feet. He laughs nervously, and Elizabeth finds herself smiling at his demeanor.

“We should probably try to limit our encounters to where I don’t end up on the floor. It seems to always put a damper on the conversation,” she jokes, and she thinks idly that it may be the longest sentence she’s spoken in two weeks.

William blushes fiercely and scratches the back of neck. “I was worried about you, after that last time. But I had no way to contact you, so I couldn’t check in. Are you…are you alright?”

“I’m fine. It was just…a rather strange evening. I guess I just wasn’t exactly prepared for so much excitement,” she smiles and watches as his shoulders relax, “But what about you, Mister Thomson? How long have you been living here?”

“I just moved last Saturday. I remembered the name you gave me, though it took me a few weeks of sleeping on my mate’s sofa to actually find the place. Monsieur Devereaux is very good at haggling.” He nods over to the proprietor, who eyes William suspiciously from across the room. He glances back towards Elizabeth, an eyebrow raised as if to ask _is he troubling you?_ Elizabeth smiles back at Monsieur Devereaux and waves. He nods before turning back to his broom.

“I was hoping to find you,” William continues, “though of course, I was hoping on a slightly more elegant greeting than this.” His eyes widen suddenly, and the color in his face, which had returned to normal during their conversation, quickly rises back to red. “Please don’t think that I was following you, Miss Elizabeth! I was just—I only wanted to say hello—I would never try to—”

She finds herself giggling at his fumbling, “It’s alright, Mister Thomson. I’m actually very glad that you decided to say hello. Even if it was a bit unorthodox.”

“You are? Fantastic!” He grins widely, and Elizabeth nearly swoons at the sight of his dimples, “But please, you must call me William. Mister Thomson reminds me too much of my father.”

His smile is contagious. Elizabeth grins and looks away from William. She finds herself nervous in his presence, a feeling she wasn’t expecting to ever feel around another person. Save for one, of course. Guilt washes over her for thinking even briefly of Booker, and she glances over to William’s canvas, still resting against the wall.

“Do you paint, William? I thought you were a writer,” She nods at the canvas, and she watches his blush deepen even further.

“I dabble. I find it helps motivate me when I’m suffering from writer’s block. I assure you, I’m a much more skilled writer than an artist.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime. Both your writing and your art. I’m not a good storyteller, but I’ve painted a few landscapes before. Dabbled, I guess you would say.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing up at William from her lashes. She thinks she must be getting more skilled at flirting, because he clears his throat and stutters in embarrassment.

“O-of course! My um… my portraits might not be very impressive, but I’ve unpacked my personal library, and I find I’m rather proud of it. Two hundred thirteen so far. Books, I mean,” he frowns, “then again, I can’t imagine that would be very impressive either, seeing as you work in a bookstore.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widen in interest. “You fit over two hundred books in your apartment? William, you _have to show me_.”

“What?”

Elizabeth grabs the canvas, shoves it under William’s arm, and takes his other in hand, dragging him towards the stairs.

“I want to see your library. Right now.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you’ve probably seen—”

“Absolutely. Let’s go now.” Elizabeth feels giddy with her excitement, though she’s aware that only a small percentage is actually about William’s books. He shares a like mind, an appreciation for the arts that she’s never been able to share with Booker. There’s a youthful energy to William, an infectious one that makes Elizabeth feel her age, instead of the constant need to act older than she is for the sake of survival.

As William and Elizabeth ascend the stairs, she realizes that part of her constant worry came from the fear that her past would come back to haunt her. That Columbia would somehow descend from the heavens, searching her out, Songbird circling the city, poised to grab her and take her away again. But that couldn’t happen. Not here. Songbird is dead. Comstock is dead. Columbia destroyed itself, and those that may have survived the siege certainly wouldn’t be looking for her. Why bother? She wouldn’t have the power to raise it back up, nor would she ever want to.

For once, she was free from the horrors of her past, and she never needed to fear for her life again.

_“It’s not over because the Prophet is dead. It will only be over when he never even lived in the first place.”_

No. She couldn’t do this. Not now.

_“That’s the only way to do it. Go back to when he was born…and I’ll smother the son of a bitch in his crib.”_

Elizabeth presses hard on her temple, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping the vision passes.

“Elizabeth? Are you alright?”

They’ve stopped at the top of the stairs. Her grip on William’s arm has tightened, and she quickly loosens it. His forehead is crinkled in worried, and she wishes that she could go a single day without someone looking at her like that. She forces a small smile in William’s direction.

“I’m fine. I just…I get these headaches, but they pass with time.”

“Do you need to rest? Which room is yours? We can look at my silly books another time.”

She shakes her head, “No. I want to look at your silly books,” she smiles again, this time more genuine. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

William watches her, still concerned, but he nods after a moment, and the start of the second flight of stairs.

His apartment is one floor above hers and Booker’s, and William fumbles with the lock for several seconds before the creaky door finally opens. He steps aside politely to let Elizabeth through first, and she nearly laughs in delight at the room. The set up is identical to hers, but where the walls are bare in the apartment downstairs, here they are crowded with floor to ceiling bookshelves, stuffed to capacity with every imaginable volume—encyclopedias and dictionaries, novels and books of poetry, plays and random collections of loose paper.

A finely upholstered chaise lounge sits in the middle of the room, an easel set up across from it. Scattered on every surface where there isn’t a book, there are loose pages with pencil sketches, a stack of small canvases stuffed away in the far corner. A tiny table sits near the bed, a journal sitting open and covered in ink spots, a typewriter on the floor beside it. Crumpled sheets of paper lay strewn across the floor. The sheets of the bed are tossed in a jumble, and Elizabeth can even spot ink spills on the white linen. A gramophone sits on top of a small stack of books beside the chaise.

William clears his throat from behind her. “I apologize for the mess. I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors for…well, a while.”

“You moved in a few days ago, and yet you’ve accumulated this much mess already?” she teases, quirking an eyebrow towards him. He blushes again. She wonders if he ever gets dizzy from all the blood that seems to constantly travel to his face.

“Yes, well. I find my living spaces usually end up as scattered as my own mind. I suppose it’s some kind of comfort, to have a reflection of yourself physically manifested. Though it does tend to turn off visitors. Again, I apologize for the mess.”

Elizabeth runs her hand over the wood of the chaise lounge. The furniture alone must cost a fortune, something neither her or Booker would be allowed to dream of. She turns back to William. “There’s no need to apologize. I think it looks amazing. Like a proper Parisian apartment.”

He laughs, his hand coming up to scratch his neck, “I guess it does have that bohemian feeling to it.” Even as he says it, he begins to pick up scattered pages from off the floor. Elizabeth sits on the chaise, moving sketches as to not bend them. She picks up one and examines it: a large robust woman in the nude, her head looking over her shoulder. Another below it, this time a study of hands, all belonging to men, dirt shading over the knuckles. Below that, another study of a man, lean yet muscular, his arms crossing over his naked chest, the head missing. She raises a brow at William, showing him the sketches in hand.

“I’m not sure who you’re trying to fool, William, but this doesn’t look like dabbling.”

His eyes widen, and he gently takes the papers back from Elizabeth. “They were studies. From a course I took at Cambridge.”

“They’re remarkable.” He looks up at her remark, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. Then, he grins widely.

“It’s very relaxing for me. I’d like to continue, if I could. I just need to find people who would be willing to model for free. Which, naturally, is very difficult.” He sits next to her on the chaise, shuffling the papers together into a neat stack. She nudges his knee with her own.

“Well, if you ever need help, let me know. I’ve never modeled before, but I can at least sit if you need me to. And then in return, you can let me read some of your books. Maybe some of your writing, if you don’t mind.”

“You would do that? I mean, yes, of course! If you don’t mind my horrible misspellings or constant disorganization,” he chuckles, his brown eyes lighting up, “but I would be honored to sketch you. Nothing scandalous, of course! Maybe just your face. Or your hands,” he takes her right hand in his, running his ink stained fingers over her knuckles. He stops at her pinky, where her thimble shines in the light. Elizabeth fights the urge to pull her hand away, holding her breath, waiting for him to let go in repulsion. Instead, he runs his thumb across the silver delicately.

“May I ask?” he starts, and his voice is barely above a whisper, “Was it an accident? Or were you born with it?” he looks up at her face, curiosity shining in his eyes. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want. I guess it’s not the most polite thing to ask.”

She doesn’t know how to answer.

_My father sold me to an alternate version of himself, and when he tried to take me back, a tear between the two universes collapsed and cut off my finger, which gave me the power to open tears and traverse across time and space._

“I’ve had it as long as I can remember,” she half-lies. “No one ever asks about it. I think they think they’re being polite. But they always stare at it, and I’d rather they ask than look at it as if it’s some kind of deformity.” She didn’t realize her voice had gone quiet, as if sharing a deep secret. It felt strange, to actually talk about something without the fear of the truth being revealed. It felt remarkably freeing.

“I don’t think it’s a deformity. I think it’s one more thing that makes you extraordinary,” William gives her a small smile, and she doesn’t see pity in his eyes, as she was expecting. She sees something akin to admiration.

Elizabeth can smell his cologne, spice and leather, and she realizes suddenly how close their faces are. His eyes look into hers, then glance quickly down to her lips. She feels her heart picking up speed, and for a moment, she thinks he might kiss her. When he lifts his hand up to her face, she’s certain he’s going to kiss her.

She pulls back, and William’s hand freezes in midair. He closes his hand and lowers it, casting his eyes away from her.

“I’m sorry, I thought maybe—”

“It’s alright, William. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She looks down at her hands, twirling her thimble around on the top of her pinky. They sit in silence for a minute, the wind whistling outside the only sound.

“It’s your friend, isn’t it? Booker was his name, right?”

Elizabeth’s head snaps up, staring wide eyed at William, who sheepishly looks away. “Booker? I…no, Booker and I aren’t—he’s not…”

William gives her a sad smile. “But you’d like to, right? Even at the dance hall, I saw the way you looked at him. You’re in love with him.”

Elizabeth laughs with little humor. “It doesn’t matter. He…I don’t know how he feels exactly. He acts one way and says another. He’s not exactly the best person for me. Nor do I think I’m the best for him.”

“I can’t imagine you being anything but perfect for whoever you ended up with.” he mumbles to himself, but Elizabeth smiles at the comment. If only William knew how horribly wrong he was.

He was clearly too good for her. Even ignoring the horrors she had seen, had committed, she was still every kind of wrong for someone as kind as William. Maybe a different version of herself, a different Elizabeth, could be with William in the way that he clearly wants her. A version of Elizabeth that wasn’t completely in love with someone like Booker. Perhaps even a version of Anna, if a version ever existed, would kiss William the way she wants to. But Booker would always be in the way. Always in the back of her mind. The proverbial “what if”.

But Booker didn’t want her. Or even if he did, he refused to act on his desires. He blatantly denied Elizabeth when she had offered herself on a silver platter, and now their camaraderie was ruined. Any comfort she could get from Booker was stunted, leaving her lonely and wanting. And if Booker felt as torn as she did, he certainly didn’t show it. If anything, it was as if she didn’t exist anymore to him. He had won, and Elizabeth almost hated him for that. How dare he continue to live his life as if the world hadn’t been ripped apart, as if she wasn’t completely ruined.

And if he didn’t want her, why should she deny herself the comfort of human touch? Why should she punish herself over his rejection? Even if it wasn’t everything she wanted, she could have something close to the happiness she was seeking. After all, wasn’t that her reason for escaping to Paris in the first place?

After a moment of stillness, Elizabeth leans over to William and covers his lips with her own. He lets out a small sound of surprise, but his hand comes up to cradle her head regardless. His lips are soft, the faintest sensation of stubble on his chin rubbing against hers. She hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s doing apart from the stories she read in her tower and the ones she heard Madame Beaumont speak of, so she allows William to deepen the kiss. He sucks on her lower lip, and Elizabeth find herself opening her mouth on a moan. Their teeth clash, and she laughs into the kiss, pulling away and grinning widely.

“I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this,” she says, her hands reflexively resting on William’s chest.

He laughs and smiles back at her, and she thinks the sun may have some competition.

“It’s alright. We have plenty of time to practice,” he lifts her chin up and kisses her again, leaning back against the chaise lounge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _S'entendre - A reflexive verb that literally means “hearing (each other)”; it means to get along with someone in the sense that you understand how they think. ___


	8. Astre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey,” he mumbles, holding her eye contact, “are we okay?”_
> 
> _They’re really not. There’s too much between them. Too many secrets, too much tension. Too many unspoken words. But they’re as fine as they can be for the foreseeable future. Elizabeth almost wants to steal a page from Comstock’s book and look ahead, open a tear and peek into their future so she could be more sure of her answer. But she doesn’t want to imagine the possible unraveling an act like that could cause._  
>  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it to over 1000 hits! This is amazing, thank you so much to everyone! 
> 
> Making up for last week, here's a longer chapter of Booker and Elizabeth sort of getting over themselves and Elizabeth waxing poetic over Oscar Wilde.

Elizabeth finds a new routine in the weeks that follow. She goes to work as normal, and listens to the local gossip from Madame Beaumont, picking up new and salacious words in french. She’s constantly amazed by the line that Madame Beaumont dances between propriety and scandal. When she finishes at the bookstore for the day, she returns back to her building. But she doesn’t go to her and Booker’s room. She bypasses their apartment to go a floor higher, where William sits at his table, scratching in his journal or typing furiously on his typewriter.

Will doesn’t write after Elizabeth has arrived. He greets her with a smile that lights up the room, clearing the space of whatever he’s doing. He grabs a book from his enormous bookshelf and gives it to Elizabeth with detailed suggestions on what images and themes to look for while reading. Then, the two will spend the rest of the afternoon either reading excerpts from novels and books of poetry, or Elizabeth will sit as still as possible while William practices his sketching. He’s very fond of drawing her hair and her hands, especially her right one, even with the stump of a pinky.

She doesn’t see Booker often, and when she does, she speaks only the bare minimum to him. He rarely speaks to her in return, besides to keep the door locked when he leaves for the bar. She doesn’t know if he still keeps his promise to not drink, and she finds quickly that she doesn’t care as much as she expected. On occasion, she’ll spot the absolute guilt and sadness in his eyes. _Good_ , she thinks. Now he knows how she’s felt for months.

The less interaction with Booker she has, the less her tears try to break through and assault her mind. It’s relieving to not wake up in the middle of the night screaming, to not feel her head split open with memories that never happened. She fears her visions are contingent on her time with Booker, and in that same vein, his nosebleeds and dreams are contingent on his interaction with her. For all intents and purposes, it’s better for Elizabeth and Booker to stay away from each other. Safer.

But despite her current feelings and animosity towards him, she doesn’t want to separate from Booker. He’s the biggest constant in her life, and even when they don’t speak, she feels safer when he’s sharing a bed with her. She knows now that they’ll never be lovers, and they certainly can’t be father and daughter. But she also knows that she needs him in her life in some capacity. And maybe they can’t repair their relationship to what it was before. But Elizabeth thinks they might be able to piece together some kind of semblance of their companionship.

Booker seems to think so too. He asks her on a Friday over dinner if she wanted to go anywhere that Sunday.

“What?” the color in Elizabeth’s cheeks rises at the sudden request. They hadn’t spent a Sunday together in weeks. Instead, Elizabeth had retreated to Will’s apartment, where she reads quietly on his chaise while he writes. And then they usually ended up practicing their kissing.

“This Sunday. I figured we could go somewhere. Nothing too fancy. But…you know. Pick something to do and we’ll go. A museum or something,” he shrugs, looking into his soup instead of at her face.

“Why?” she blurts out, and she wants to kick herself when he looks up, staring at her with those incredibly sad eyes.

“Because, Liz, we used to spend time together on Sundays. And—” he rubs his temple, brow creased in frustration, “You keep disappearing and avoiding me, and I don’t want us to keep doing this.”

He leaves it at that. _I don’t want us to keep doing this_. Avoiding each other. Curling away from each other in bed. Pretending the other doesn’t exist. She doesn’t want to keep doing it either. But she’s still afraid of what might happen if she lets him in again.

“I’ll…I’ll have to tell William. He’ll get worried if I don’t come over on Sunday.” Booker lowers his hand from his head, his mouth a thin line.

“William?” he asks slowly, “What do you mean?”

Elizabeth cringes internally. She had avoided telling Booker about Will, mostly because there wasn’t a need to, but also because she didn’t need Booker to know where she was running off to. She didn’t need him tracking her down whenever he wanted.

“William. From the dance hall. He moved in upstairs a few weeks ago. I’ve been reading his books on Sundays,” she takes a drink from her tea, acting as nonchalant as possible. Booker’s eyes narrow, and he bristles.

“He just _happened_ to move into our building after you fainted at a dance hall and opened up a bunch of tears?”

“First of all, I didn’t actually open any of the tears. Secondly, I _told_ him where we were living when he mentioned looking for an apartment,” she watches his face harden, “I know that look, Booker. He’s not dangerous or suspicious.”

“Everyone’s always suspicious,” he grumbles out. His forehead creases before he asks, “Do you remember seeing him before? I mean, before the dance hall. Maybe around the time that we arrived here?”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes and stands up from the table, taking her bowl to the sink. “No, I had never seen him before the night we went out. God, Booker, what are you thinking? That he’s some kind of spy from Columbia?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Is it possible that you saw him in—”

“How the hell should I know?!” she’s shouting now, her arms outstretched, “If you don’t remember, I was kind of _locked up in a tower_ my whole life! And then, the second I get out, I get shot at, captured, and tortured within an inch of my life! So if you think he’s from Columbia, I think you should maybe try to remember yourself, because I was a little pre-occupied!” her blood is boiling, and the room feels too small for the rage that’s growing inside her. She feels the pricking of a headache, and she closes her eyes to push it back.

Booker’s voice is soft and cautious when he speaks. “Okay, Liz. I’m sorry. Can you calm down for me, please?”

“Why?” she snarls, opening her eyes to Booker, who looks over her shoulder. She turns around, and hanging just above her head, shimmering in the dark room is a single tear. The size of her fist, it undulates, and Elizabeth can hear shallow whispers passing through.

“Oh god,” she whispers, her head beginning to pound. She had gone so long without an incident, that she had forgotten the panic and pain that one of her episodes could cause.

“Hey,” she jumps at Booker’s voice, closer than she had anticipated. He places a hesitant hand on her shoulder as she continues to stare at the tear before her, “It’s okay. Can…can you close it?”

Elizabeth doesn’t speak, not wanting to get his hopes up. She slowly lifts her hand up, and the tear dances in excitement. She can feel it reaching out towards her, some kind of magnetic pull calling out to her. Wrapping her hand around the invisible threads, she can hear it calling to her. Begging her to open it. Elizabeth lets out a breath and gives a sharp tug to the thread. The tear wobbles, crying out, but she gives another hard tug, and it closes shut, the whispers disappearing.

Elizabeth breathes deep, turning away from Booker. She busies herself with clearing the rest of the table and carrying the dirty dishes to the sink. She can feel Booker’s hesitation enveloping the room, and she wishes he would just let it go.

“Are you alright?” he asks, worry in his voice.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she turns the faucet on as hot as it will go.

“Okay. Okay.” He walks back over to the table and sits down. “I’m sorry for…you know. I didn’t think you would—I guess I just didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t.” She’s tired of placating him. Tired of telling him that everything is alright. “I find someone who shares my interests, who doesn’t care about my past, who is actually my own age, and the conclusion you draw is that he must be a spy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It just…it all feels too convenient. And maybe I’m a bit—” he shrugs.

“Maybe you’re what?” she crosses her arms over her chest, fixing him with a hard look.

“Nothing,” he grumbles, falling back into his stoic passivity. Elizabeth rolls her eyes again. If Booker doesn’t want to talk, she’s not going to force him anymore.

“Fine,” she turns back to the dishes, her back to him. She washes the dishes in silence, setting them on the drainboard to dry.

“But…Sunday. Anything you want. What do you say?” He asks quietly, and she turns back towards him. His face is hard, but his eyes look almost pleading. She feels her resolve crumbling the longer she watches him.

“Alright.”

* * *

 

Anything she wants turns into an excursion to Père Lachaise Cemetery. Booker trails behind her as she walks through the large stone entryway.

“Of all the stuff to do in Paris, you want to look at a bunch of graves?” he scoffs, tracking the tombs on either side of the cobblestone walk. “Even for us, that’s a little morbid.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “It’s not the graves that are important. It’s the people buried there. Come on,” She tugs on his shirt sleeve as they move forward and veer off down one of the hundreds of aisles, map in hand. Each stone is bigger than the next, elaborate statues and enormous steles emblazoned with names, both famous and mundane.

A stout man stands next to a small flower cart, selling his wares to those who wish to lay libations down on the graves. Elizabeth hands him two francs for a bouquet of sunflowers and deep red roses before dragging Booker down the path towards a small crowd. They stop and look upon the grave of Chopin, baskets and bouquets of flowers overflowing the wrought iron gate surrounding the stone tomb. Resting atop is a marble statue of a woman holding a broken lyre. Several onlookers murmur from their place in the crowd.

“Euterpe,” Elizabeth whispers to Booker, “she’s the Greek muse of music.” They watch as an old, thin man approaches the iron gate, a violin case in hand. He bows his head and murmurs something inaudible, before turning back around and sitting down on the steps below the tomb. He opens his case and extracts a weathered violin, the wooden scratched and fading. His thin bow is pulled out next, and he glides it across the strings of the violin, a somber note leading into a quiet, melancholy tune. Chopin’s _Nocturne._ The small crowd hushes to listen.

Elizabeth links her arm with Booker’s and leads him further down the path, the sound of Chopin following them. They walk in silence, staring at large tombs and elaborate mausoleums. For the first time in weeks, the quiet doesn’t feel awkward, the tension of their almost-kiss erased for the moment. Elizabeth holds tighter to Booker’s arm, her cheek resting on his shoulder as they walk.

She can feel the pulsing before she sees it in the corner of her eye. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries not tighten her grip on Booker, tries not to alert him to any other presence. Of course, she has to open her eyes again, instinctively looking towards the tiny tears that flicker across the headstones to her left. The names and epitaphs change and flash across the stone, glimpses into others that may or may not have made this their final resting place. She knows if she concentrates on the names, it’ll lead to another headache, and possibly a larger tear opening. But she catches small glimpses of them, names she hasn’t heard of yet, or ones she has but hasn’t read in the obituaries yet: Morrison, Stein, Piaf, Lutece.

Elizabeth stops in her tracks for a moment, looking back at the two innocuous headstones standing side by side. The names are as ordinary as those surrounding them, one reading “Brodeur” and the other “Gage”. But then, a tear shimmers over the marbles at the same time, and the names are replace by twin carvings of “Lutece”. Elizabeth whips her head around, expecting the red-headed twins to appear before her, but there’s no one else on the path.

“Liz? What’s wrong?” she looks up at Booker, who turns his head and scans their surroundings as well. she looks back at the headstones, only to find that the tears have disappeared, the original names returned to the tombs. She shakes the shivers from her body and plants a reassuring smile for Booker’s benefit.

“Nothing. Just thought I saw something. Must’ve been a bird or something,” she lies, tugging his arm again. He doesn’t look convinced.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Come on, there’s more we need to see.” Elizabeth watches his resolve fade, and he sighs in exasperation as she pulls on his shirt sleeve again. She leads the way around a corner and down another lane, and stops him at a stone coffin, raised up on four pillars. The name is carved in large letters on the side.

“Moilere?” Booker asks, “The writer?”

Elizabeth laughs, “I didn’t think you would know who he was. But yes, Moilere the playwright. He died in 1673, but his remains weren’t moved here until 1817.”

“Why?”

“Actors weren’t allowed burial on consecrated ground. I read that the king intervened enough to have him buried in a plot with unbaptized children.”

“That’s awful,” he mumbles, and Elizabeth nods her agreement.

“It’s better than a pauper’s grave, unmarked and never remembered.” She feels a wave of melancholy roll over her, and she pulls Booker away from the coffin. Leading him down the aisle, she walks more briskly than before.

“You okay?” Booker asks, watching her from the corner of his eye. She nods curtly, staring straight forward. The lane in front of them feels like its getting narrower with each step they take, the stele’s and tombstones rising up above them.

Elizabeth feels a tug on her arm as Booker stops in the middle of the path. She turns around to face him, cataloging the creases in his brow.

“Hey. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” He holds her arms and trails his hands down until they grip her wrists loosely. She casts her eyes down, trying to look anywhere but his face.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he scolds, but his voice is soft and lacking in malice. “You seem to forget that I know you. I know all your tells. Talk to me.”

“It’s ridiculous. Just one of those stupid thoughts you get…” she shrugs, still trying to avoid his gaze.

“I can deal with stupid.”

She finally looks up at Booker’s face, and she can see the sincerity glowing in his green eyes, his smile crooked in an arrogant smirk. Even smug, he’s still incredibly handsome.

“I was thinking about death,” she says simply. Booker chuckles.

“That tends to be a common thought when strolling through a graveyard.”

Elizabeth smiles and rolls her eyes, “Not like that,” he face falls and grows sullen again. “there’s all these people here, buried in the ground, and everyone one of them has these elaborate stones or statues for people to remember them by. And I keep thinking that…I won’t ever be remembered. I haven’t done anything remarkable to warrant a tomb like these. I’m just a shop girl.” She feels tears beginning to well up, and she feels ridiculous. “I wanted so badly to make something of myself—dreamed of what I could be when I escaped my tower. But I’m still the same ordinary girl as before. Just with more blood on my hands.”

“Hey—” Booker holds her hand, his thumb twirling the thimble on her finger. A shiver runs down her spine at the memory of Will doing the same when he kisses her. Booker’s other hand comes up to rest on her neck. “I don’t want you to think that you’re anything but extraordinary, Elizabeth. And not just because you can rip apart the fabric of the universe,” Elizabeth laughs through her tears, “You’re a hero. You singlehandedly destroyed a madman and his twisted religious cult. I saw what they would’ve done to this world. You did the right thing.”

She didn’t believe him, didn’t believe the blood she had spilled was at all justified. But she nods for his comfort rather than her own. “I didn’t exactly do it singlehandedly, Booker.”

Booker shrugs, “Anything I did wasn’t entirely monumental. I just cleared the way for you.” He lifts his thumb up to wipe away the tears from her cheek, and she’s reminded of their first night in Paris. “Hey,” he mumbles, holding her eye contact, “are we okay?”

They’re really not. There’s too much between them. Too many secrets, too much tension. Too many unspoken words. But they’re as fine as they can be for the foreseeable future. Elizabeth almost wants to steal a page from Comstock’s book and look ahead, open a tear and peek into their future so she could be more sure of her answer. But she doesn’t want to imagine the possible unraveling an act like that could cause.

She nods and gives Booker the best smile she can muster. “Yes. We’re okay. Come on, there’s one more tomb I really want to see.” She takes his arm again and leads him back down the cobblestone path.

They stop en route at a large grave with a bronze statue of a man lying down, his hat resting near him, the name “Victor Noir” below his coat. Elizabeth laughs aloud at Booker’s face, staring at the bulge in the statue’s trousers, rubbed clean of the patina that covered the rest of the form. She tells him the same thing Madame Beaumont told her—unmarried women would rub the crotch of the statue and place a flower in his hat, and within a year, they would find their husband. Elizabeth teasingly reaches out touch the statue, only for Booker to yank her hand away at the wrist, grumbling to himself and leading her away. Elizabeth laughs the entire walk away from Victor Noir.

Finally, near the edge of the cemetery and the tall stone walls, Elizabeth stops Booker. She takes the bouquet of flowers over towards a tall tomb, a sphinx carved as if flying on top. Below, the name of Oscar Wilde carved into the stone. She kneels down and places her flowers down in front of the grave, sitting back on her heels. She can feel Booker move behind her, until his stands just over her shoulder, looking over at the stone.

“Odd.” He mumbles.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the carving, “Great Irish poet. And they put an Egyptian symbol on his tomb.”

Elizabeth smiles, and recites as much of _The Sphinx_ as she can remember. “Lift up you large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks! Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! And sing me all your memories!" 

Booker lets out a _hmph,_ but he doesn’t say anything more. He takes a seat next to her, and the two simply gaze at the tomb in silence.

Elizabeth is the first to speak, “He was my favorite. I found his books and plays in the library one day when I was thirteen. I never read anything that had so much joy in it, even if it wasn’t a joyous topic. You could tell that he loved the words. And I loved him for it.” she fell quiet again for a moment, and when Booker didn’t say anything to it, she recited:

“Beautiful star with the crimson lip  
And flagrant daffodil hair,  
Come back, come back, in the shaking ships  
O’er the much-overrated sea,  
To the hearts that are sick for thee  
With a woe worse than mal de mer—  
O beautiful stars with the crimson lips  
And the flagrant daffodil hair.—  
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea,  
Neath the flag of the wan White Star,  
Thou bringest a brighter star with thee  
From the land of the Philistine,  
Where Niagra’s reckoned fine  
And Tupper is popular—  
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea,  
Neath the flag of the wan White Star.”

She reaches into the pocket she sewed into her dress and pulls out the small metal tube that Madame Beaumont had gifted her (“ _for when you want to show women who your man really belongs to!” she explained with much theatrics_ ). She hadn’t used the lip color ever, even when she spent time with Will—she had no reason to. But now, she felt it was appropriate. She pushes the small lever on the side with her fingernail and applies the bright red color straight to her lips.

Booker looks at her quizzically. “What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer, but stands and takes a step closer to Oscar Wilde’s tombstone. She leans down and places a kiss on the cold stone, right about the “e” in “Wilde”. She steps back and admires the lip print, the only blemish on the smooth, white surface. Turning back towards Booker, she smiles shyly.

“So he knows that he’s loved.” She says simply. Booker nods, as if he understands, and Elizabeth reaches up to wipe the lipstick off her mouth. He grabs he wrist lightly, stopping her. She looks up in his face, and she spots the small rise of color in his cheeks.

“Don’t,” he shrugs, “it…that color looks good on you.”

Elizabeth smiles again, this time more genuinely, and links her arm once more with Booker’s, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He doesn’t stiffen as much this time, and when she pulls away, she sees a light imprint of her lips on his cheek.

She doesn’t tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Astre - means “celestial body,” which also has a literal equivalent in French: “corps celeste”. So the word “astre” is quite specific. However it can designate a star as much as it can refer to a planet, or the sun and the moon. Pretty much anything that shines in the night sky. ___


	9. Épater les bourgeois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The bar has fallen nearly silent, and Elizabeth chances a glance out to the rest of the bar. Practically every pair of eyes is turned her way, and she can’t help the feeling of panic starting to rise. She scans the crowd for Will, but before she can settle on his handsome face, she catches the eye of someone back by the bar. Booker’s face is unreadable, but he stares along with everyone else. In the end, she supposes that his eyes are the only ones that matter. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I know, it's been forever since I've updated, and I feel awful about it! I've been busy with work and taking classes for my bartending certification, so I've had very little time to work on this crazy thing.  
> This chapter was a massive struggle, because I know (kind of) what's happening after this, but it was matter of getting there that became the challenge. Anyway, hope you enjoy! And don't worry, Will won't be sticking around for too much longer.

Will surprises her a few days later by taking her out for the night. He buys her  _(buys her!)_  a new dress, a cream colored silk evening gown with intricate embroidery and blue beading cascading down in geometric patterns. Elizabeth is reminded again, as she was when she saw the elegant furniture in his apartment, that Will doesn’t struggle with money nearly as much as Booker or herself does.

Will doesn’t tell her where they’re going, just takes her by the arm and leads her down the lit sidewalks. Elizabeth already has two glasses on wine in her system from dinner that night, so she clings to Will and giggles into his arm. He’s equally as tipsy, and at one point he breaks from her hold to jump onto a lamppost, swinging around and flailing his free arm out, waving his felt hat. Elizabeth laughs and tugs on his trouser pants as he starts belting out “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’” in an exaggerated Irish accent.

“Will! Come on, people are starting to stare!” she pleads in a stage whisper. He grins down at her and leaps off the lamppost, draping his arm around her shoulders.

“Let ‘em stare, is what I say! I’m out on the town with the prettiest girl in the greatest city there is! Why not celebrate?”

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow, “Because it still isn’t exactly proper to jump on lamp posts and sing horribly off-key,” she tries to look serious and hide her smile, but Will just laughs.

“Screw propriety. Those who care about how they look instead of how they live are the same stiff-upper-lip asses that I attended school with. Rich bastards born with a silver spoon in hand and just like to show it off. Fuck the bourgeoisie!” he howls into the street, causing one woman to scoff loudly at them, her nose upturned in distaste.

“Will!” Elizabeth cries, clamping her hand over his mouth, trying and failing to keep her laughter contained. He takes her hand and removes it from his face, grinning so wide that his dimples crease.

“Come on, Elizabeth! Let go of your propriety for one night! FUCK THE BOURGEOISIE!!!” he screamed again, hopping on his feet in excitement.

Elizabeth blushes, not bothering to mention the fact that propriety wasn’t ever something that she followed very well, or that Will was technically part of the upper class that he was so quick to dismiss. Instead, she takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes closed, shouting out, “Fuck the bourgeoisie!” as loudly as she can.

* * *

 

Will cackles beside her, spinning her around in the empty street. She laughs along, her skirt twirling around her legs. When they’ve settled back down, Elizabeth’s head is spinning from the combination of alcohol and dancing. She grips onto Will’s arm to settle herself.

Through her diminishing giggles, she ventures to ask, “Where are we going anyway? You still haven’t told me.”

He bumps her shoulder with his own, leading her down the sidewalk. “It’s only a few more blocks. It’s the Chateau Laurent. Finest drinks and best entertainment in this part of the city.”

Elizabeth pulls him to a stop, her heart suddenly racing. “The Chateau Laurent?”

Will looks at her, eyebrows creased together, “That’s right. Is…is something wrong, darling?”

She stares down her shoes, the heat in her face rising. “That’s where Booker works,” she mumbles, ashamed that she feels so nervous about the possibility of seeing him at work. They had worked everything out. They were fine, so what was the issue?

“Oh,” Will says simply. He scratches the back of his neck. “Are you two not on good terms? Because if you want--”

"Oh, no! We’re fine, really. He just...never talks to me about his work, so I assumed he’d prefer I not show up” she shrugs.

“Well, Marcus and I had agreed to meet up there,” he takes her hand in his and squeezes it in comfort, “but we can just meet him outside and find somewhere else to go! We don’t even have to go inside.”

Marcus was a musician, a virtuoso on the violin as well as the piano. Elizabeth had only met him a handful of times, when Will had invited him over as a drawing subject. She had managed to tease Will enough that he told her about his admiration and slight crush on Marcus, though he was nervous that she wouldn’t take kindly to his admission of being attracted to both men and women. Elizabeth didn’t have any issue with it, and was more amazed that such a concept even existed.

She waves him off, masking her nervousness with a smile. “No, it’s fine. It’ll take forever for us to decide on somewhere else. Let’s go—Booker will probably be too busy to notice us anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Let’s not keep Marcus waiting.” Will grins back at her and threads his fingers through hers, keeping her close as they continue down the sidewalk.

The remaining blocks to the Chateau Laurent take no time at all, and Will waves at the dark skinned man leaning against the outside wall, smoking a cigarette. Marcus grins widely, his brown eyes twinkling in the lamplight, as he pushes off the wall and takes a step forward to meet them. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Evening, William. Miss Elizabeth,” he tips his hat, his french accent barely noticeable. Marcus had told Elizabeth that he had lived the last three years in New York, and only just returned to his native country to assist his recently widowed mother.

Will pulls Marcus into a hug and pats him on the back. “It’s good to see you, Marcus. Working on any new pieces?”

“A few,” Marcus eyes Will up and down, before taking another drag of his cigarette. “I’m looking to take up something new. The trumpet, maybe.”

Elizabeth nods at his cigarette, “You won’t be able to play much trumpet if you keep smoking those things,” she smiles at him playfully. He grins back and stomps his cigarette out.

“Well then, I suppose it’ll be even more of a challenge for me. You can’t tell a Frenchman to give up his tobacco.” He laughs gaily, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He winks surreptitiously at Will and begins to lead Elizabeth towards the door. Will comes up on her other side, his mouth lowering down to her ear.

“Are you sure you’re all right to go here?” he whispers to her, his hand pressed to her lower back.

“I’ll be fine,” she gives Will a small smile and follows Marcus into the bar.

Inside, the bar patrons holler and laugh over each other, some pushing through the crowd to reach the large mahogany bar that stretches the length of the right wall. Elizabeth follows the current of people, her eyes constantly checking for Will and Marcus. She glances over to the bar, searching for Booker, but instead sees a man with an impressive beard and moustache serving drinks. In a back corner, a stout man hammers a ragtime tune on a weathered piano, while his slight companion picks along the neck of a busted guitar. Some drunken patrons attempt to sing along to a made up tune, but it just comes across as garbled noise.

Marcus continues to lead their little party over to the far end of the room, away from the larger crowd, and into a small booth. Elizabeth glances back over the patrons as she sits down, and she’s struck by the surprising lack of women among the sea of drunk boys and men. She had thought that maybe the demographic would be similar to the dance halls, perhaps a slightly larger percentage of men. Nothing had prepared her for the constant staring when she walked across the room, the leers of drunken men as they look over her dress, her face, her curves. She feels more exposed now than she had when she stood in front of Booker, naked.

She finally spots a handful of women surrounding one corner of the bar, their long hair worn down in pretty waves. Their skirts are hiked up to a few inches above the ankles, and Elizabeth notes that none of them are wearing stockings. Bright red lips purse and pout at the bartender as they giggle behind their glasses of wine. Elizabeth thinks they might be call girls, and for a moment she’s appalled by the fact that an establishment would allow such characters to enter. She’s more appalled that Booker would work someplace like this.

She leans across the table and yells over the noise. “I’m getting a drink. Do you want anything?” she asks Will and Marcus, who rolls another cigarette and lights it. Will asks for a glass of wine while Marcus shakes his head ‘no’, and Elizabeth scoots out of the booth to head towards the bar.

Navigating the crowded room without her companions turns out to be even more difficult than she had originally planned. The crowd moves with her like a river’s current, and she finds herself stepping closer and closer to the group of women at the opposite end of the bar. She thinks to backtrack, to distance herself from any association with the women, but she reaches the smooth surface of the bar before she can tell her feet to move.

One of the call girls, a red head wearing a blue cotton dress, smiles at Elizabeth. In a sweet voice, she says, “ _Votre robe est très belle!_ ” and nods at her skirt. Elizabeth blushes and looks down at her feet, mumbling out a short “Thank you.”

“Ah! You’re American,” another girl exclaims. Elizabeth looks up at her, bright green eyes rimmed in kohl, long dark curls framing her round face. She looks young, barely older than Elizabeth herself, but the makeup ages her significantly. She takes a long drag from the cigarette dangling between her fingers. “What brings you here? We don’t see girls like you this late at night.”

“Girls like me?” she asks in return, feeling more self conscious than she was before. She tucks her hair behind her ear in embarrassment.

“Proper girls. Fancy girls. The well to do types tend to leave by the time dinner rolls around,” the red head answers, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Oh, believe me, I’m neither proper nor fancy,” Elizabeth insists, thinking back to her little apartment that she shares with her father. Who she’s in love with.  _Yes, definitely not proper._

The red head giggles again, and nods towards the bar, where the bearded bartender is making his way in the direction of the call girls. “Would you like us to buy you a drink? Us women folk need to stick together against the hoards of drunken men.”

Elizabeth opens her mouth to respond, but the green eyed woman smacks the other with her fan, “Hush, Claire! We shouldn’t bother the poor thing. The boys’ll get the wrong idea about her if she drinks with us.” Her words are chastising, but there’s no hint of malice in her voice. The red head—Claire, simply pouts dramatically.

“Oh no, it’s alright,” Elizabeth smiles at the two, “I just came to get a drink for my friend and I.”

“The tall one with the dark curls?” Claire asks, her voice hushed as if divulging a secret, “We saw him when you and your friends walked in. He’s quite handsome! Georgette kept looking at him like he was a piece of meat!” the other girl smacks her again with her fan. “Ow!  _Quoi? C’est vrai!”_

Elizabeth can’t help the small laugh she lets out at their antics. She’s surprised how friendly and comfortable they seem, especially considering the fact that they sell their bodies for a living. She could almost mistake them for school girls, with the way they carry on, gossiping about this man and that, debating over who is most handsome or which girl’s shoes are the prettiest. Elizabeth feels at ease for a moment, and though she’s not foolish enough to think these girls would want her as a friend, she finds comfort knowing that she can be accepted so easily by women her own age.

“Jaque! Jaque,  _viens par ici!_ ” Georgette calls out, and the bartender waltzes over to the ladies, his smirk complimented by his waxed moustache. Georgette stands and leans over the bar, shouting over the din of noise.  _“Faire une boisson pour mon ami américain, s’il vous plaît.”_  The bartender, Jaque, looks over Geogette’s shoulder to spot Elizabeth in her beaded dress. She feels his eyes tracking along the length of her dress, and she suddenly feels overwhelmingly over-dressed.

Jaque leans over and crosses his arms on top of the bar, his eyebrow raising in assessment. His smile turns lascivious, and Elizabeth feels her cheeks redden just from his look.

“Mademoiselle, may I offer you an orgasm?” Jaque asks with a serious expression, and Elizabeth’s eyes widen in shock. She thinks maybe the frenchman had translated incorrectly, but she runs the sentence again in her head, and she knows there’s no mistaking what he said. Her face heats up.

“I’m sorry?” she sputters out, and suddenly she feels like she can’t get enough air.

Jaque simply smiles and chuckles. “An orgasm. It’s a drink. Pardon my forwardness, Mademoiselle. I wanted to see exactly how much you could blush, especially in the company of these ladies,” he nods to the two girls, and both Claire and Georgette giggle, rolling their eyes for Elizabeth to see. It seems as though this was a typical stunt that Jaque played. Elizabeth forces out a small laugh, not wanting to seem as naïve and childish as she felt.

Jaque leans even further towards Elizabeth, until his lips are right next to her ear. “Of course,” he whispers loudly, “if you were interested in the other kind, I would be happy to oblige.”

Elizabeth doesn’t have a moment to respond, because Jaque is suddenly yanked away from her by some other force. She looks down at her hands as they start to shake with nerves and the smallest hint of fear.

“Get back to your customers, Jaque, or I’ll pound your fucking head in.” she hears, and her head snaps up at the voice of her savior. Booker has his back to her as he stares down Jaque, who straightens his vest and glares back.

“I was just doing my job!” Jaque spits at Booker, who simply crosses his arms. Elizabeth sees Jaque shrink back slightly, and she can perfectly picture the glare Booker must be giving him—she had seen it several times when they were in the Vox universe, when members of the Vox would try to get his attention and ask his instruction for taking down Comstock’s men.

“And when is harassing young girls in the job description?” he growls, and Jaque’s face skips red altogether and colors straight to purple in anger. He mumbles out in french, and Elizabeth catches only a select few words; “ _manger de la merde et mourir , putain américain,_ ” but he turns around and heads to the other end of the bar. Booker watches him go before turning back around.

Elizabeth feels her face flushing again at the sight of Booker in his work uniform. He never wears it when he comes home, so she had just assumed he wore his everyday clothes. Instead, he wears a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black arm garters resting on his biceps, a newly pressed black waistcoat finishing off the outfit. His hair has, amazingly, been combed over to the side and slicked with some kind of product to keep it in place. His eyes widen as he takes in Elizabeth’s appearance, but then his crosses his arms again, scrutinizing her for a moment.

“You okay?” he asks, and she can hear the concern in his voice, betraying the scowl he wears.

Elizabeth can’t find the words to reassure him, because she’s really not okay, but she nods anyway.

“Monsieur Booker!” Claire exclaims from next to Elizabeth, and from her blissful grin, she either didn’t notice the words Booker had with Jaque, or she just didn’t care. “You must meet our new friend! She’s American, just like you!” she hugs Elizabeth’s arm to her, pulling her closer to the bar.

“What are you doing here?” Booker asks through his teeth. She catches his eyes flick over to Georgette for a brief moment before returning to hers, aiming an accusatory stare her way. As if Elizabeth should feel ashamed of showing up at all.

“I’m here with friends, actually,” she responds back, plastering on a sweet smile.

“Do you two know each other?” Georgette asks, and Booker’s glance over to her is so short that Elizabeth almost doesn’t catch it. Almost.

When he doesn’t respond, Elizabeth answers instead, “Booker and I live in the same apartment building. We barely see each other, though,” she gives him a pointed look, and Booker has the decency to look away, disgruntled and ashamed. Elizabeth crosses her arms on top of the bar, “Actually, I should really get back to my friends. They might think I’ve been kidnapped. I just came to get a drink, anyway.”

“What do you want?” Booker asks the counter in front of him, busying himself with cleaning a glass instead of looking back at her.

“Gin and tonic for me. And a chardonnay for Will.” Booker’s movements halt, and he looks up at Elizabeth again, his eyes narrowed. He speaks in a hushed voice, but his tone is still harsh.

“I told you before, that guy’s not—”

“Why does it matter, Booker?” She asks back, lowering her voice just for his ears. “He wanted to take me out on the town. And why shouldn’t I? I can’t stay cooped up in the apartment, only going out on Sundays when you find it convenient.” She knows she’s being cold, and she knows that he probably doesn’t deserve it, after they had managed to get back to some semblance of normalcy. But she can’t stand his constant disapproval of Will for no reason. She had given him a chance, if he was interested. Now it was her turn to move on.

“I’m sorry,” Booker sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Elizabeth scoffs, and looks down at the bar before mumbling, “That hasn’t been an option since I left my tower.” He doesn’t respond, and the silence between them seems louder than the  noise of the bar. Booker turns away without another word, grabbing a wine glass and a highball before heading down the bar.

Claire leans in towards Elizabeth as he retreats. “You know, from the way you two look at each other, I would think you were more than acquaintances.” She giggles again, and Elizabeth watches Booker from down the bar.

“How could we be? He hardly knows a thing about me,” she says to no one in particular. Booker returns with two drinks in hand, and Elizabeth places a money note on the bar. She takes the drinks and looks up at Booker, giving him a sad smile and a nod before turning around and moving swiftly away from the bar.

She can feel his gaze burning into her back.

Will is waiting for her when she returns to their booth, and Elizabeth slides in next to him. His wide grin falls when he sees her face.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, taking both drinks from her and placing them on the table. He takes her hand in his and rubs his thumb over her knuckles.

Elizabeth shakes her head lightly. “It’s fine. I just saw Booker, and I don’t think he’s entirely pleased by my coming here.”

Will looks up and scans the crowd, “I suppose it doesn’t help that you came here with me. I have the distinct impression that Mister Dewitt isn’t my biggest fan.”

She gives a light laugh, “That’s an understatement,” taking a drink of her gin and tonic, she glances around the booth, “Where did Marcus fly off to?” Will chuckles and points behind Elizabeth. She turns to see Marcus sitting at the piano along with the other pianist, playing a gay ragtime tune on the high keys, his cigarette dangling from his mouth. Elizabeth laughs loudly and shakes her head.

Marcus waves at Elizabeth and Will, sliding his hand down the keys before picking up Irving Berlin’s “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”. Will says something in her ear, but she can’t hear over the music and the drunken patrons, some now dancing with each other.

“What?” she shouts back at Will. He grins.

“Do you want to dance?” he repeats. Elizabeth looks pointedly at the rest of the room, and the clear lack of floor space.

“We can’t possibly dance here.” She reasons, but Will is already scooting out of the booth, offering his hand out to her.

“Of course we can. We just have to try harder,” she scowls playfully at his outstretched hand, but takes it as he pulls her to stand. He wraps his arm around her waist, her hand in his, and leads her into a fast paced waltz. He leans in and mutters into her ear, “Besides, I owe you a proper dance.”

Elizabeth feels her face flush as they dance around the crowd. Some of the men begin to waltz beside them, while others holler encouragements their way. She hears Marcus’ playing crescendo and quicken, and so Will picks up their pace, their dance morphing into a pseudo foxtrot. Several patrons clap along to the music.

Elizabeth thinks briefly to look for Booker, but when she is spun around quickly towards the bar, she can’t spot him. She reasons with herself that it’s probably for the best, that she wouldn’t want him to interfere when she’s having fun.

And she is, extraordinarily. The scene isn’t nearly as proper as that of the dance hall, and she realizes that she could cause a scandal from being out so late without supervision, but she’s having  _fun._  It feels like those first moments at Battleship Bay, before everything turned into a nightmare. Before she was being hunted down and nearly killed. When the biggest worry of hers was to not step on anyone’s toes. She didn’t think she would ever feel that kind of carefree happiness again.

Marcus ends the song with a flourish over the piano keys, and the bar applauds. Elizabeth laughs and rests her head on Will’s shoulder, watching as Marcus smiles their way before turning to the other man playing guitar. He speaks into his ear and points directly at Elizabeth, and she lefts her head again, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Elizabeth!” Marcus exclaims as he approaches. He grins from ear to ear, but she narrows her eyes in suspicion. “I have mentioned to my friend that you have a lovely voice, and he’s very adamant that he hear you sing.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widen. “What? No! I can’t sing, Marcus,” Will simply laughs beside her, and she elbows him in the ribs.

“Of course you can! I’ve heard you many times at William’s. Please,  _mon petit oiseau chanteur_? You must do us the honor!” Marcus lights the cigarette in his mouth and takes a drag, smirking back as if knowing she’ll cave.

“Absolutely not. I don’t sing in front of people. I refuse to.”

“ _Sil vous plait, Madamoiselle_!” he turns to Will with pleading eyes.

“No!”

“Elizabeth,” she hears Will beside her, “I would never force you to do anything you don’t want to…” he trails off, and Elizabeth crosses her arms in defiance.

“Good, because I don’t want to,” she huffs. Will sighs.

“But I know I would really love it if you sang for us,” he finishes. She glares back at him.

“You traitor! You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Look,” he takes her hands in his and rubs her knuckles, “If you don’t like to sing in front of people, you could just, I don’t know, sing to me? Just one song?”

Elizabeth looks back and forth between the two men, Marcus with his all-knowing smile and Will with his pleading eyes. He looks like a puppy dog. She lets out a huff.

“Ugh,  _fine_! One song. No more than that,” she grumbles, and Marcus is already scrambling back to the piano, saying something in french to the other musicians. She looks back to Will, who smiles back sheepishly.

“I’m sorry?” he tries.

“You’re dead to me,” she quips, before heading to the piano. Marcus begins to play a solemn tune, one Elizabeth had heard many times on Will’s records, and under the sound of the piano, she notices the bar patrons beginning to hush.  _Splendid,_ she thinks to herself with disdain. Still, she knows she can’t back out now, so she starts to sing, focusing on the wood grain of the piano.

“Come to me, my melancholy baby  
Cuddle up and don’t be blue  
All your fears are foolish fancy, baby.  
You know dear that I’m in love with you.”

The bar has fallen nearly silent, and Elizabeth chances a glance out to the rest of the bar. Practically every pair of eyes is turned her way, and she can’t help the feeling of panic starting to rise. She scans the crowd for Will, but before she can settle on his handsome face, she catches the eye of someone back by the bar. Booker’s face is unreadable, but he stares along with everyone else. In the end, she supposes that his eyes are the only ones that matter.

“Every cloud must have a silver lining.  
Wait until the sun shines through.  
Smile, my honey dear  
While I kiss away each tear  
Or else I shall be melancholy too.”

Marcus flourishes into a piano break, and Elizabeth can’t make herself look away from Booker. A chill runs down her spine at the same time a pressure begins to prick at her temple, and she nearly cries out in surprise.  _Not here, not here, not here_. She digs her nails into her palm, hoping to stave off the vision, but she feels it coming like a wave of electricity. She balances her hands on the top of the piano, hoping the move is subtle enough for no one to notice.

_He watches her across the room, cigarette in his mouth, glass of scotch in hand. He doesn’t sit at the tables like the other guests; instead, he leans against the back wall, his face nearly covered in shadow until the end of his cigarette burns and lights up his face. He looks older—more grey in his hair, deeper wrinkles around his eyes. His clothes are even different, but Elizabeth knows it’s still Booker._

_No. Not Booker._ Comstock _._

_He watches her, and she shouldn’t be surprised by the attention. That’s why she’s here, after all. Cohen had offered her a chance to sing at Fleet Hall, but she had to prove herself first. Prove that she was a true artist. She glances over to Fitzpatrick, and he smiles back at her, all toothy grin and wide blue eyes. His fingers glide over the keys with perfect precision. Elizabeth steps closer to the microphone and begins to croon out to her small audience._

_“Let’s say goodbye with a smile dear,_  
Just for a while dear we must part.  
Don’t let our parting upset you,  
I’ll not forget you, sweetheart.”

_In truth, she’s been watching him for weeks. She’s been in Rapture a month. A month since she sold her mother’s dress for a more appropriate wardrobe. A month since Ryan banished the entirety of Fontaine Futuristics to the bottom of the ocean. A month since she had spotted Comstock existing a cigar shop, a little blonde girl trailing behind him silently. The girl had disappeared shortly after._

_She followed his movements from a distance. Tracked his schedule, talked to those he talked to. She watched him enter Eve’s Garden once a week, every week. She wonders if he’s been sampling the merchandise as much as Ryan has. Continuing his search for his Miracle Child. He goes by his old name in Rapture, and Elizabeth nearly broke the glass window with Booker Dewitt, Private Investigator etched into it._

_He doesn’t deserve that name. He doesn’t have the right._

_Elizabeth looks his way, and his green eyes are fixed on her. She has her strategy in mind. Another month of this. Another month of pandering to Cohen’s sick “artistry”. Another month of poor Fitzpatrick gushing about the new piece he was given—Cohen’s Masterpiece, apparently. Another month of watching him from the shadows, catching glimpses of the Booker she knew, forcing reminders to herself that Booker’s dead. Then she’ll approach him, offer the job. Repay the debt._

_She fixes her glance back at him. She needs him to trust her. So she sings to him, and she nearly laughs at the irony._

_“We’ll meet again,_  
Don’t know where, don’t know when,  
But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.  
Keep smiling through, just like you always do  
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.”  

_He quirks he eyebrow and takes a drink. She smiles coyly in his direction. Good. Let him think she’s interested. It’ll be easier when the job comes around._

_“And so I’ll say hello to the folks that you know,_  
Tell them you won’t be long.  
They’ll be happy to know that as I saw you go,  
You were singing this song.

 _We’ll meet again,_  
Don’t know where, don’t know when,  
But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.”

Elizabeth scrunches her eyes against the bright lights of the bar. She can hear the piano still playing beside her, and when she looks around, the faces are the same as before. No one is watching her oddly or has broken out into a panic, and she lets out a breath of relief. No one noticed her episode. She plasters a smile as she looks out over the crowd, but she catches Comstock’s eye again.

No. Not Comstock. Booker.  _Her Booker._

He frowns, his forehead crease, and Elizabeth knows from his look that he noticed her spell. She smiles encouragingly in his direction, but her face falls again when he very discreetly lifts his hand up and draws his finger against the bottom of him nose. Eyes widening, Elizabeth lifts her fingers to her nose, where she feels a small drop of wetness. Her fingers come away red, and she panics, turning her back to the crowd and towards the piano, wiping the blood away as best as she can. Marcus continues playing, but he looks up to Elizabeth and furrows his brow.

“Are you alright?” he whispers, crescendoing the keys to cover his voice. Elizabeth nods in response, wiping again at her nose. Marcus nods with her, “I’ll play a few more bars for you.”

Elizabeth smiles and whispers a thanks as Marcus leads into a vamp on the piano. When she runs her fingers under her nose again, they come back clean, and she nods at him again before turning back around to the crowd.

Booker is still watching her carefully from the bar, and she looks away from him to smile at Will, who remains oblivious and grins widely at her. She takes comfort in the adoration she finds in his eyes, pushing through to the end of the song.

“Every cloud must have a silver lining.  
Wait until the sun shines through.  
Smile, my honey dear  
While I kiss away each tear  
Or else I shall be melancholy too.”

The piano ends with a flourish, and Marcus winks at her as he plays the final notes. The patrons around them break out into applause, and Elizabeth blushes, wringing her hands as she walks back into the crowd. She glances over to the bar again, and she shouldn’t be surprised that Booker has disappeared again. Will wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close as the rest of the men begin to surround and speak loudly in french. She catches only a few words here and there, but she feels overwhelmed by the positivity being voiced her way. Will leans closer and speaks into her ear.

“You were amazing. And every man in this room wants you now,” Elizabeth’s face heats up, and she looks down at her shoes.

“God, don’t tell me that!” she retorts back.

Will laughs and plants a kiss on her forehead, “It is wrong of me to feel a little smug that I’m the one you get to dance with?” his eyes twinkle, and he wears a self-satisfied smirk.

She smacks him lightly on the chest, “Yeah, don’t get a big ego about it.”

Will pulls her closer, his hands resting on her waist, and he looks deep into her eyes. “You really are amazing, Elizabeth. In every way.”

Elizabeth can’t help the smile that breaks out on her face, and Will leans in towards her. She closes her eyes just as his soft lips graze hers, and she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer into the kiss. The noise around them grows, and Elizabeth can hear the bar patrons cheering on Will. He nips at the bottom of her lip and she has to stifle the surprised sound that threatens to come out.

In an instant, Will has disappeared, and Elizabeth’s eyes snap open as he’s pulled away from her. He’s shoved aside by large hands, and he staggers backwards to regain his balance. Elizabeth opens her mouth to yell at the offender, but the sound dies in her throat when she sees Booker’s staring at her, his eyes stormy. He turns his back to her, glaring at Will, who narrows his eyes in turn.

“What the hell?” Will fumes as he steps closer to Booker.

Booker takes a step to the side, hiding Will from Elizabeth’s view. “Back off,” he growls, and the crowd around them has backed up enough to give them space.

“We weren’t doing anything!” she hears Will, his voice raised and desperate.

“Booker—” she warns.

“You touch her, and I’ll break your goddamn face,” Booker snarls back, and Elizabeth has had enough. She pushes Booker out of her way and stomps in between the two men, glaring back at Booker.

“Booker, stop!” she yells, her hands balled into fists at her side. He glances down at her, and his eyes soften, raising his hand towards her face. She pulls back when he goes to cradle her head.

“Are you okay?” he has the gall to ask, and she lets out an exasperated laugh.

“I was perfectly fine until you decided to show up!” she narrows her eyes, and watches as his gaze pings back and forth between her and Will.

“Your nose…” he lowers his voice so only she can here. Elizabeth stiffens at the reminder.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, the anger she felt beginning to melt away.

“And I wasn’t about to let him take advantage of you if you were—” he starts, glaring behind her at Will.

“He wasn’t doing anything wrong!” her voice starts to rise once more, “God, Booker you’re not my—” she stops herself.

“Not what?”

She can’t make herself say what she wants. Because it wasn’t true, was it? Elizabeth takes a deep breath, trying to collect herself and not explode the way she needs to. She’s been placating Booker for too long, tried to stem his anger towards Will as much as she could. She doesn’t need him hovering over her again and again, shielding her from the world. She had that with Songbird. He’s not her savior anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. She needs to kill the bird again.

“You’re not my keeper,” she hisses instead. “I don’t need your protection anymore. I don’t need  _you_.” He recoils minutely, and she can’t help the guilt that creeps inside.

From the bar, she hears Georgette. “Monsieur Booker!” she calls, a twinkle in her eye. Booker glances over in her direction, then back to Elizabeth.

She lowers her voice again, “You’re making a scene. Go back to work, Booker.” She feels tired, exhausted by the constant fighting between the two of them. They’re off balance, and Elizabeth hasn’t the faintest idea of how to fix what they had.

Booker sighs, defeated, before turning towards the bar. “If he hurts you—” he warns.

“Trust me, Booker. I can do much more damage to him than you ever could,” she reminds him, encouraging him with the smallest of smirks. Placating him again.

He nods, looks over to Will, then heads back through the crowd. Elizabeth closes her eyes and lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She can feel more than hear Will coming up cautiously beside her. She grabs his hand and squeezes tight.

“Are you alright?” Will asks, and Elizabeth thinks she should be asking the same of him.

“Can we leave?” she asks, opening her eyes as Will nods. He waves to Marcus, who had watched the encounter with Booker alongside the rest of the room. Marcus nods, lighting another cigarette in his lips. Elizabeth feels the eyes of every patron on them as they leave, and she can still feel Booker’s green eyes burning in her back when they head out the door.

* * *

 

Will makes love to her for the first time that night. It starts with a quiet walk home, the tension too thick to break with small talk. By the time they arrive at the apartment building, and subsequently, Elizabeth’s door, she still hadn’t apologized yet for the disastrous turn the evening took. Will stares down at his feet, shuffling against the hardwood outside Elizabeth’s apartment.

He doesn’t ask questions when she suggests they go up to his room instead, where she doesn’t have to confront her own loneliness in the dark of her bedroom. Where she doesn’t have to let the idea of Booker’s disapproval nag at her mind for hours. Where she can escape from the prickling thought that something was going on between Booker and the call girls.

Will puts on a record after Elizabeth settles on the chaise, her fingers twined together. She says nothing when he sits beside her, his hand covering hers. She says nothing and closes her eyes when he kisses at her jaw, peppering kisses and nips down the length of her neck. When his other hand brushes her collarbone, she pulls away and stands up. He watches her with hurt eyes until she reaches behind her and begins to work at the buttons down the back of her dress.

The solemn tune of Irving Berlin plays, the only sound as she lets the heavy beaded dress fall to the floor, crawling into Will’s lap in only her slip. His breath comes out short when she kisses him, but his arms wrap around her waist and hold on tight.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, and Elizabeth can’t speak, so she nods instead, covering his mouth again in answer.

A gasp is wrenched out of her when Will lifts her in his arms and carries her over to the bed. She closes her eyes as his hands wander up and down her body, and she blocks out the thought that the hair she runs her fingers through is too curly, too dark. The hands that slowly pull off her shoes and stockings aren’t nearly calloused enough. The lips that kiss between her breasts are too soft, the chin too smooth. She ignores the drumming in her ears when he kisses between her legs, and lets out a low moan at the sensation. Looking down as he laves at her core, she expects to see bright green eyes staring back. She pushes away the disappointment when brown eyes meet hers instead.

Elizabeth doesn’t speak, doesn’t really know what to say, even when Will rambles and mumbles into her skin, biting her neck as he finally pushes into her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she braces against the pain, breathing heavily as he moves slowly inside. She waits for it to pass, waits for it to turn into pleasure, and when Will reaches down between them, she nearly keens from the sudden onslaught of sensation. Her nails dig into the back of his neck, and with that encouragement, Will moves faster, until they’re both chasing towards the edge.

It’s over sooner than she had expected or hoped. Will finishes in a matter of minutes, collapsing beside her after releasing on her stomach. He pulls her close, and when he whispers “I love you” into the silent room, Elizabeth can’t find the voice to return the sentiment. He falls asleep before he can hear her non-answer, and she turns away from him, listening to the wind whistle outside the window, thinking that she’d rather the arms around her smell of whiskey and gunpowder instead of paper and wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Épater les bourgeois - To deliberately shock people who have conventional values. Literally “to amaze the middle class”. ___
> 
> The songs featured in this chapter as "My Melancholy Baby" from 1912 and made popular by William Frawley, and "We'll Meet Again," made famous by Vera Lynn in the 1940's.


	10. La Douleur Exquise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She should’ve known that he would turn to a call girl instead for comfort. She should’ve known that all their time spent, all the demons fought, wouldn’t be enough to sway his affection. She should’ve known. What an idiot._
> 
> _Maybe she did, deep down in her gut. After all, what other reason did she have to spend the night with Will? Because she loved him? No. Affection, maybe. Comfort, certainly. But she never spoke when he confessed his love for her. She didn’t dare share that part of her, that tiny corner of her heart that was reserved for someone else. Someone else who spent his nights with whores. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so super late with this update. I was sitting on this chapter for a while, because it's a relatively big change in the course of the story, and it had to be perfect. It's not perfect, but it works well enough. Also, I've been working nearly six days every week, so that's my excuse. 
> 
> Also, If anyone was interested, I think I'm going to post Elizabeth's dresses on my tumblr, since I'm basically stealing real gowns from the 1910s in this story. I'll post a link as soon as I have one. Enjoy!

Booker stumbles into their apartment later in the morning than usual. Elizabeth watches him carefully from the bed, having only just snuck in from Will’s an hour earlier. He’s silent as he sheds his coat, but she notices the haphazardness in the way his shirt is tucked. A deep red stains the top of his collar, and she tenses at the prospect of blood, but as he passes the bed and heads towards the washroom, she catches the symmetrical impression the stain forms. Lipstick.

The door to the washroom clicks shut, and Elizabeth turns on her back, staring up at a crack in the ceiling. She knows she has no business feeling jealous—what Booker does in his free time is his alone. If he finds his happiness in the warm embrace of another woman, another woman that isn’t her, who was she to complain? In the wake of his rejection of her, she thought maybe it was his own guilt or faults that squandered his affection. She hadn’t considered the fault might lie with herself—with her physical appeal or lack thereof, her youth and naivety, her lack of experience and maturity.

She should’ve known that he would turn to a call girl instead for comfort. She should’ve known that all their time spent, all the demons fought, wouldn’t be enough to sway his affection. She should’ve known. What an idiot.

Maybe she did, deep down in her gut. After all, what other reason did she have to spend the night with Will? Because she loved him? No. Affection, maybe. Comfort, certainly. But she never spoke when he confessed his love for her. She didn’t dare share that part of her, that tiny corner of her heart that was reserved for someone else. Someone else who spent his nights with whores.

Warmth trails down her cheeks, and Elizabeth brushes the stray tear away. Her vision blurs, and she’s not sure whether her eyes are watering from sadness or anger. She decides anger is the better option, crossing her arm over her eyes and breathing in deep. 

The faucet in the other room turns on, flowing water breaking the still silence. She tries to focus on the sound of the running water, broken occasionally by what could only be Booker’s hands. Underneath, she hears the faint sound of static, like a radio changing channels. Shivers and tingles creep down the length of her arms and into her fingertips.

Cautiously, Elizabeth opens her eyes. Directly above her, mere inches from her face, a tear throbs and pulses. The energy vibrates through her, and she can feels the threads wrapping around her body like a spider’s web. The image inside is faded, marred in greys and whites, and she can hardly make out a dark figure linger far within the reaches of the universe. Her pulse quickens, but the figure doesn’t move, but instead, she can hear a buzzing, slowly getting louder until she can make out the piano and guitar.

A man’s voice croons softly from within the tear, his tenor light and airy, and Elizabeth’s muscles relax, the tension melting away.

“ _We three, we’re all alone  
_ _Living in a memory  
_ _My echo, my shadow, and me._

_We three, we’re not a crowd,_  
_We’re not even company  
_ _My echo, my shadow, and me.”_

Elizabeth reaches up with her hand, her thimble buzzing along with the music. The invisible threads dance and twine around her wrist like a bracelet. They whisper to her underneath the music, and she coils her finger around one, pulling it slowly towards her. The tear spasms and buzzes as it slowly opens further, the music getting louder as it pours over Elizabeth. 

_“What good is the moonlight_  
_the silvery moonlight_  
_That shines above._  
_I walk with my shadow,_  
_I talk with my echo,  
_ _But where is the one I love?”_

She shuts her eyes, the static of the tear warming her body and settling over her like an invisible tide. She feels like she could simply disappear, vanish into another time, another place. Another Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth?” the voice is muffled, as if heard through water. She opens her eyes, dazed, and she’s aware of Booker standing beside her, can feel the tension in his face. But she can’t look away from the tear in front of her, the mysterious figure and the enchanting voice.

“Elizabeth, what are you doing?” he sounds frantic, and she can’t possibly understand why.

She smiles dreamily, and watches as the image in front of her shifts. “Listening to music,” she mumbles. A new figure fades into the tear, and Elizabeth feels it staring back at her. She doesn’t feel afraid.

“Close it.” Booker’s voice is firm, the soldier giving an order. The music changes over to static again, and she watches the mysterious figure move towards her. “Dammit, Liz, close it!”

“Why?” she asks, finally turning her head to look back to Booker. Droplets of water cling to his hair and gather at his temples. He’s taken his shirt off, and she can see water and sweat glistening on his bare chest. His eyes are fixed on the tear dangling inches above Elizabeth’s head.

The tear whispers again to her, and she can almost make out the voice. She grips hard onto the threads in her hand, not wanting to close herself off from the warm embrace of the tear. Booker looks down at her, and she can see the fear in his eyes, even as he tries to mask it with his hard stare. Fear of the tear, or fear of her?

_Booker, are you afraid of God?_

_No. But I’m afraid of you._

She opens her mouth to say something—some kind of assurance, maybe some kind of question—but her remark is cut off when the open tear speaks to her.

“ _Elizabeth,”_ she snaps her head back, and though he’s still an arm’s breadth away from the portal’s edges, her blood runs cold. Staring back at her are a pair of green eyes, so similar to the ones that watch her in fear. His smiles curls beneath his beard, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. “ _My sweet, sweet lamb,”_ he coos. His hand reaches out towards her, towards the edge of the tear.

Elizabeth screams, pushing up and away from the bed and towards Booker. The threads around her hand tighten from the movement; the tear flickers, but it doesn’t budge.

Booker’s arms wrap around her waist. “Close it!” he yells, even as she can hear Comstock speaking through the tear, calling out to her. Frantic, she wraps her hand again around the threads, anchoring her grip with the opposite hand, and pulls hard on the frayed edge. The tear beats like a heart, thrumming loudly in the room, until it shudders and collapses, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Elizabeth stands up and wrenches out of Booker’s embrace. She crosses the room and plants her hands on the window sill, breathing heavily. Her tears fall freely, and she doesn’t move to wipe them away. Blood pounds in her ears, and adrenaline courses through her veins. Her vision blurs and her head aches.

“Elizabeth,” she hears Booker speak from just over her shoulder, but she’s gone somewhere else, and Booker’s voice isn’t his anymore. She balls her fists and digs her nails into her palms, bile rising in her throat from the absolute disgust she feels.

_He’s doubled over before her, his head in his hands. The tear—the memory—has faded now, and blood drips slowly from his nose. She looks down her nose at him, and she’s never seen him so pathetic in her life. She hears the Big Daddy moving up the steps towards them, and she knows there’s not much time left for him._

_Her words are venom, and her eyes are an inferno. “She wasn’t yours...Comstock._ I _wasn’t. Yet you had to have me, didn’t you?”_

“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth spins around to come face to face with Booker. _Had she said that aloud?_ She must have, judging from his confused eyes. Something warm dribbles from her closed fists, and when she looks down, panicked, she spots a small trail of blood where her nails claw into her hands.

Booker looks down at her hands, and begins to reach his own out towards her.

“Liz—”

She snatches her hands away, backing up against the window frantically. “Don’t touch me!” she cries, and Booker steps back, his arms raised in surrender.

“Okay, okay! I’m not gonna do anything,” he moves back towards the bed as Elizabeth shrinks back into the corner. The adrenaline drains from her body in a moment, and she lets her weight sink down to the ground, wrapping her bleeding hands around her legs. Resting her head on the top of her knees, she breathes deeply, her breath ragged as she exhales. _It’s not him. It’s not him. It can’t be._

Minutes pass. Booker’s voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is barely above a whisper. “Elizabeth,” she looks up, her eyes watery. “He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I saw him, Booker,” she croaks out, her grip around her legs tightening. “I saw him, and he reached out for me.”

“In a completely different universe. He can’t come after you—he’d have to open a thousand different tears just to find you.” Booker sinks down to the floor, leaning against the bed with his legs straight out. He doesn’t move to touch her again. “What do you want me to do? Jump into every tear and kill the son of a bitch again?”

Elizabeth shakes her head, fear bubbling inside. The only way to be rid of him forever would be—

_Smother. Smother. Smother. Smother_

No. She dare not think of that solution. She’ll have to live with the knowledge that Comstock will continue to exist in hundreds upon hundreds of universes. She can’t be rid of him and keep Booker at the same time. There had to be a compromise.

She just wishes it wasn’t such a dangerous one.

 

* * *

 

“I have a question. A request, I suppose,” Will sits up on his side, propping his head up with one hand. His other trails along Elizabeth side, naked from her waist up, the bed sheets tangled around their legs. A thin sheen of sweat dries on his forehead and his breath is heavy from exertion.

Their bedroom activities had gotten more athletic and energized over the past few days. The night following her encounter with the tear Comstock, Elizabeth had bolted upstairs and tackled Will to the bed, riding him until she passed out from exhaustion. She didn’t dream when she slept that night, and with Comstock far from her mind, she counted it as a win. Every time they made love, she forced herself to keep her eyes on Will, burn his features into her memory, erase the need for different hands and eyes.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” she yawns, hugging a pillow closer to her chest, “I’m not indulging your perverted fantasies.”

Will laughs and moves a piece of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Nothing sexually perverse, I promise. Or, at least, I hope.” He looks down, his eyes shifting as if mulling his words over. “I was just wondering. Would you mind modeling for me again?”

Elizabeth grins, stifling a laugh. “Is that all? I’ve been modeling for you for some time, Will. There’s no need to be nervous about that.”

“In the nude,” he states simply, color rising in his cheeks.

“Oh,” she exhales, taken by surprise. He casts  his eyes down to the bed sheets in shame, and Elizabeth feels her own cheeks heating at the suggestion. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed to be naked in front of Will—hell, she was in the nude _now_. But if he wanted to sketch her like that…

This would be her on display for anyone to see, should they want to. It made her permanent, in a way that his previous portraits of her didn’t. She hadn’t felt permanent in a long while, possibly since she escaped her tower. As son as she began to explore her tear power, her existence had felt ephemeral, as if she could disappear in the blink of an eye. As if she could go anywhere she pleased, and not have a lasting effect on where she had been. And now, Will was offering her a way to solidify her being here in Paris. Here, with someone who loved her.

Elizabeth rolls over and straddles Will’s waist, bracketing her arms on either side of his head. He looks up into her eyes, face still flushed, but eyes growing dark with arousal. Elizabeth smirks at him.

“Do you promise to keep any drawings to yourself, and not share them with _anyone_?” she coos in her best sultry voice. She slides her body down towards his hips, and Will swallows hard as she grazes his growing erection.

He nods frantically. “N-no. I mean yes! Yes I promise,” she smiles coyly and grinds her hips against his, and he gasps, breath ragged. He reaches up to cups her breasts, but she yanks them away, pinning his wrists above his head.

“I mean it, Will. You can’t show anyone. Not even Marcus.” Will practically whimpers, and Elizabeth squeezes her eyes shut as she drags herself over his cock.

“Yes, of course! Anything for you, my love!” he balls his trapped hands into fists. Elizabeth opens her eyes and leans down, her lips hovering over Will’s, his erection pressed at her entrance. He smiles at her, sweat beading on his brow. “So, is that a yes?”

Elizabeth kisses him once, lightly on the lips, and grins in return. “Of course,” she straightens up and bounces off the bed, trailing the bed sheets behind her. She scurries off into the washroom, and she can hear the frustrated groan from behind her.

“You are the most incorrigible woman I’ve ever met,” Will grumbles from the bed, and Elizabeth peeks out from behind the washroom door. He pouts in her direction, his dark curls stuck to his forehead.

“I’m impressed you can still come up with words properly after how riled up you were,” she laughs, which only causes Will’s look to grow darker. He rolls out of bed, his eye never leaving her, and his smile is predatory as he lunges towards her. Elizabeth shrieks in delight and tries to close the washroom door on his face, but he pushes himself into the room, grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her up on the sink.

He kisses her fiercely, and Elizabeth instinctively wraps her arms around his neck, her legs coming up to trap his hips against hers. Will trails wet kisses down her jaw and sucks on her throat, and she lets out a gasp as he grinds into her. He lets out a low groan, grabbing her wrists as she had done before, and pinning them above her head, against the mirror. The cool glass chills her arms and back as he leans into her body.

“You know, you’re going to break the glass,” she teases as he works his way across her collarbone. “And you know what that means, don’t you? Seven years of bad luck.”

Will pulls back and smirks, his dark eyes blown wide and trailing down the expanse of her naked body. “I’ll take the bad luck if it means I can take you,” he punctuates his statement with another grind against her, and she lets out a high moan. “And I can always buy a new mirror, if need be.”

 

* * *

 

 

Booker fumbles with his keys outside of Devereaux’s apartment building. It was approaching four in the morning, and he was practically falling over his own feet in exhaustion. He didn’t intend to stay out so late, and the only thing he was looking forward to was the comfort of his own damn bed.

It hadn’t been a good night at the bar. Jaque had gotten into a row with some gent from Nice, over the quality of French beaches, of all things. The customer, red-faced with port, threw the first punch, and while Jaque was above drinking on the job, he was still wrapped up in his own idiotic sense of honor and pride. Booker had to pull Jaque off with the help of two regulars before he broke the customer’s nose. Or before his own moustache got ripped off. Whichever came first.

A gendarme had shown up, and they closed the bar down early. Jaque had naturally blamed everyone but himself, and Booker snuck away before he could pin the brawl on him. He had planned to go home after that, get a few extra hours of sleep, but Georgette was waiting for him at the corner of the building, complaining that her dates were spoiled for the night with the bar closed.

He fucked her in her room, a few blocks away. He had never been in her apartment before, their rendezvous restricted to the broom closet or washroom of the bar. Her sheets smelled like lilies and cinnamon, the scent burning his nostrils as her took her from behind. Her long black curls stuck to her back with sweat, and from this angle, Booker could imagine someone else beneath him, begging him to go faster, harder, _there, right there!_

The front door finally gave way, and Booker stepped inside, not bothering to muffle the sound of the door closing again. He flexed his fingers over the radiator in the entryway, working the warmth and circulation back into his system. It was getting cold, the clouds threatening snow over rain. He had lost track of time, since they had arrived in Paris. Had it really been five months since he and Elizabeth had escaped?

Booker looks up the dark staircase in front of him, the railing strung with boughs of holly and pine garlands. It was getting close to Christmas, and he hadn’t given a damn thought as to what he was going to do for her.

His stomach sank as he remembered the event from earlier. She said she had seen Comstock through the tear she opened. He hadn’t seen her so scared in his life. Even when he had found her at Comstock House, alone and tied down, she still had that spark in her eyes. The one that allowed him to not worry about whether she could take care of herself. The one that sometimes scared him shitless. The girl was powerful, always was, and even more so now that the syphon was demolished. She could destroy the world with just a thought, and Booker knew the universe was just lucky a power so great had been given to a girl so sweet.

_The girl is the flame that will ignite the world_.

Booker’s brow creases as he begins the climb up the stairs. The Luteces had told him that, what felt like centuries ago. He hadn’t seen the twins since they had left Columbia. Elizabeth never mentioned them. But if they could travel across universes like Elizabeth had said, shouldn’t they be here, pestering Booker about the debt that hadn’t been paid? He wondered where they were, not that he missed their company.

The floorboards beneath him creaked and groaned as he trudged down the hallway, keys in hand. The entire building was silent, and he really shouldn’t have expected anything less, considering the late hour. His key fits much more easily into his apartment door, and as he turns the knob, a noise came from the floor above. Booker stops and cranes his ear up towards the ceiling, waiting. Seconds late, a distinct scraping sound drags across the ceiling, like furniture being moved. He waits again, but there’s no other sound, so he opens the door to the apartment and goes in.

The apartment is pitch black when he enters. Booker thinks to turn the light on, but then ignores that thought, not wanting to wake Elizabeth. He leans against the door, his hand instinctively reaching to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. A headache was coming on, but at least there weren’t any signs of a vision.

God, he needs a drink.

His nosebleeds had gotten more infrequent, but when they did come, the pounding migraines usually followed. Visions of his office in New York plagued him, bits and pieces to establish a time and place, but never enough to distinguish any of his actions. His brain replays his encounter with Robert Lutece’s request to find Elizabeth, but the year is always wrong. Why would he be looking for her in 1893?

Shaking the thought away, Booker tears off his coat and undoes his tie, tossing them to the floor. He can worry about them later. Now he just wants to sleep. As he unbuttons his vest, his eyes adjust to the blackness of the room. He shrugs the vest off and turns to the bed, but then stops.

The sheets are perfectly pristine, still tucked into the edges of the mattress as they had been when Elizabeth remade the bed. Booker’s brow furrows, and he glances around the room. He crosses to the closed washroom door, noting the lack of light coming from under the door. Still, he knocks lightly.

“Elizabeth? You in there?” he turns the handle when no answer comes, and looks into the empty room.

Booker’s hears the blood beginning to pound in his ears, and he tries not to think of the worst possible scenarios that could have happened to her. Tries to think that she might have gone to Madame Beaumont’s for the night, watch over her cat or something. Instead, his mind’s eye presents him with thoughts of kidnapping, robbery, assaults. Maybe her glimpse at Comstock was more dangerous than he thought. Maybe he had found out they were in Paris, sent someone to take Elizabeth back to Columbia. Back to Comstock House. Back to her unimaginable torture.

Fear trickles down his back, and Booker paces the floor, mind racing. If she wasn’t hurt, she would have left a note. But the apartment wasn’t damaged, so there wasn’t a struggle. Or maybe Comstock’s men knew how to clean up after themselves.

Booker strides towards the chest at the foot of the bed, yanking the top open. He rummages through the clothes, tossing aside chemises and petticoats, shirtwaists and trousers, until he reaches the bottom, where his hand cannon and Skyhook rest. The pistol he had given Elizabeth sits in a corner of the chest, never touched. He grabs the hand cannon first, sliding the barrel out to check the bullets. Snapping it shut, he lifts his hand to close the chest, but stops, eyeing the Skyhook.

A loud thump echoes from the ceiling, and Booker’s head snaps up. He stills his movements, not making a sound, and listens carefully. A man’s voice laughs, muffled from the ceiling above. And then, the sound of furniture dragged across the floor again.

Booker remembers Elizabeth mentioning that Will lived above their apartment, but he didn’t think he lived _directly_ above them. And what reason would he have to be awake at this hour anyway? Even more so, what reason would he have to move furniture around?

And then Booker hears it, soft from the floor between them. Another laugh, this time from a woman. She speaks unintelligibly, her voice just a murmur, but Booker recognizes it in a moment. He’ll always recognize her voice.

Booker slams the door to their apartment shut behind him, Skyhook in hand. His blood is boiling, his teeth on edge. He never liked Will from the moment he met the kid. He didn’t like his arrogance, his naivety. He hated the way he looked at Elizabeth, as if she was some sort of god damn prize. Booker’s grip on the Skyhook tightens as he ascends the stairs.

Of course, he has no intention of using the weapon, Booker reminds himself. Maybe scare the kid a bit, make him back off for the last time, but he’s not aiming to hurt him. Unless he’s given a reason to.

Booker stops in front of what he assumes is Will’s door. He can hear talking inside, the words indistinguishable. He raises his fist and pounds hard on the door, his fingers itching the barge straight in, but his head keeping him steady. From behind the thick wood, he hears Elizabeth shushing Will, muffling a giggle.

_“Be quiet! You’ll get yourself evicted”_ he hears her whisper loudly, and Will laughs along with her. Then, louder, Will’s voice carries into the hall.

“Sorry, Monsieur Devereaux! We understand it’s late, and I’d like to apologize for waking you. We’ll be going to bed now!”

Booker clenches his teeth and reaches for the door handle, but stops to listen as Elizabeth begins to whisper again.

“ _Going to bed? Why, Mister Thompson, how scandalous of you! A single man taking a lady to bed with him!”_ she falls once more into a fit of giggles.

“ _Just stay quiet, and maybe he’ll go away. Besides, you wouldn’t be too upset if we_ had _to go to bed, would you?”_ His voice holds entirely too much suggestion for Booker’s liking.

Elizabeth laughs at this, and Booker takes a single step backwards, his blood pounding in his ears, his grip like a vice around his Skyhook. He tries to remind himself to stay calm, stay collected. Don’t make a scene.

_Fuck it._

Booker slams his boot into the door, just below the lock, and the wood flies back on its hinges. Will and Elizabeth both scream in shock, and as Booker enters the small apartment, his mouth is already forming the words of some irate speech that had come to him on his way up the stairs.

His words die on his tongue when he sees Elizabeth lying on a divan, her face flushed as she wraps a long silk robe around her naked form in an attempt to look decent. He quickly glances over to Will, who has stood up from his place at an easel, a charcoal drawing resting against the frame. A drawing of Elizabeth, on the divan, in the nude.

Impulsively, Booker squeezes the trigger on the Skyhook once, causing it to spin lazily. Elizabeth’s looks down to the weapon in his hand, and her eyes widen.

“Booker—” she starts.

“Go downstairs,” he growls, his gaze fixed on Will’s frightened face.

Elizabeth takes a step forward, her hands reaching out towards the Skyhook, her voice shaking, as if talking to a rabid animal, “Booker, don’t do anything rash. Just put it down.”

“I said, Go. Downstairs.” Booker repeats, taking a single step further into the apartment. Will takes a step back, and Booker can’t help the small smile the movement brings to his face.

Elizabeth is at his side now, her hands gently resting on his. “Please, Booker—”

He whips his head to the side and glares at her. He never thought he’d ever be angry at her in all the time they’ve known each other. Frustrated, maybe. Annoyed, probably. But now, he’s fucking livid. “Go. Downstairs. Now!” he barks, and Elizabeth winces, as if struck. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and as she rushes out into the hall, slamming the wobbly door behind her, Booker feels the first stab of guilt for his behavior.

He didn’t mean to show this side of himself. He didn't mean to scare Elizabeth the way he did. He didn’t mean to fuck up this badly.

Booker closes his eyes and exhales. When he opens them again, Will is still standing there, fear in his eyes. 

“You and I need to talk,” Booker grumbles, grabbing a chair and taking a seat.

 

* * *

 

 

Elizabeth paces the room, tugging her robe closer to her body. She keeps her steps fast but quiet, listening carefully for any changes upstairs. Not that it would matter. Booker knows how to kill silently if the need arises.

She shouldn’t have run. She shouldn’t have been such a coward. But when she saw the pure hatred in Booker’s eyes, she felt as if she had been stabbed. The choice came down to running away, or breaking down right there on Will’s floor. Still, she shouldn’t have left Will alone with Booker.

Seconds turn into minutes, and Elizabeth’s anxiety heightens and turns to anger. Who the hell was Booker to judge her for her actions? A man who has his fair share of misgivings, who has done things infinitely worse than pose nude for a portrait. What high ground does he have to stand there and chastise her? Her fingernails bite into her palms, and she only gives a cursory glance down to her shaking fists. She should go back up there. She should open a god damn tear into the most dismal universe possible and shove Booker in. Remind him that he has no power over her. Remind him of that fear he had of her.

Elizabeth crosses the room in a moment, her hand reaching out to grasp the handle of the door, when it whooshes inward and slams against the back wall. She freezes, looking up into Booker’s stony face. Instantly, she scans his body, focusing on his hands and the Skyhook clutched in his left. There’s no sign of bloody anywhere, and her anger abates slightly.

Booker stays silent, turning around and closing the door behind him with an audible click. He faces the door, staring at the wood instead of at her, and Elizabeth can see the muscles of his arms tensing in strained anger. His silence is torture, and her frustration and anger bubbles up again, breaking through the quiet room.

“What the hell was that, Booker?” She demands, siphoning all her energy into her rage. “You think it’s perfectly fine to barge into someone’s room like some…some animal and threaten their life? I can’t believe you! How am I supposed to show my face to Will again? How is he supposed to trust me? He was the only friend I’ve been able to make here in nearly six months, and now you nearly killed him!”

Finally, Booker clears his throat, and his voice is ragged when he speaks. “He won’t be coming around anymore,” he addresses the door, and Elizabeth blood runs cold.

“You didn’t….Tell me you didn’t hurt him,” She feels tears welling up, and she quickly wipes them away angrily, “I swear to God, Booker, if you did anything to him—”

“He’s fine. We just talked.”

Elizabeth scoffs and rolls her eyes, “Like I believe that. I don’t think you even know how to talk.”

“Well, we did. And he won’t be calling on you again. Do you hear me?” He finally turns back to her, and Elizabeth can see the hard look in his eyes, as if a decision was made and made to be kept.

“You can’t control me, Booker. You can’t just make rules to suit your whim and expect me to follow them. I’m not one of your little soldiers.” His jaw clenches, and she knows she’s trying his patience, but she doesn’t care anymore. She holds his gaze, and her breath is heavy from her outburst. Booker lets out a sigh, his hand reaching up to rub at his temple.

“I don’t want you to see him again. Please.” It’s as close as he’s come to begging since she’s known him, and she’s struck by his rare use of the word.

“Why? Why is this so important to you?” Elizabeth asks, her voice softer.

“It just is, okay? We can talk about it later,” he crosses the room, pulling his suspenders off his shoulders.

“No, we’re talking about this now. You don’t get to shrug this off and forget about it. Not after the stunt you pulled.” Her voice rises again in exasperation.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t trust him, and I would hope that you would trust me enough to understand that.” He yanks the arm garters off and toss them in the corner.

Elizabeth lets out a laugh, “Trust you? You? I don’t trust you any further than I can spit.”

“Elizabeth—”

“No, you want to talk about trust? Let’s talk about trust. Let’s talk about the man who fell into my tower and told me he would keep me safe, but at the cost of hundreds of lives. Let’s talk about the promise he made to take me to Paris, only to lie and try to sell and ship me off to New York. Let’s talk about the weeks I spent being tortured by strange men, constantly hoping that you would show up, _trusting you_ to keep your word. Let’s talk about the lies and the killing and the constant silence I get whenever I even try to understand you. And you ask me to _trust you_? I barely know you.”

Another silence falls. Elizabeth waits for the rebuttal, waits for Booker to defend himself, to yell at her, to say _something_. In true fashion, he remains quiet. She turns on her heel and walks to the washroom, unable to look at him anymore. Her hand is on the doorknob when she hears him behind her.

“Did you love him?” it’s barely above a whisper, and she can hear the self-deprecation in his voice, as if he’s even ashamed to ask. When she turns to look back at him, his face is still hard, but there’s something in his green eyes, as if pleading to her.

“No.” her answer is firm, but Booker’s expression doesn’t change.

“Did you fuck him?” he asks next, the words sounding a little forced, and Elizabeth barks out another laugh.

“That’s your concern here? That I had sex with Will?”

“Did you?”

“God, yes! Yes, I fucked him! Are you happy now?” She yells, tossing her hands in the air, and she watches as his face blanches. “Do you want to know how many times? How many positions? Do you want to know if he made me come? And then maybe I can ask you about the call girls at the bar.” She registers the fire in his eyes, the pure rage, but she continues to plow ahead, vomiting up all her ire and frustration. “Was is Georgette, or Claire? You can stand there and judge me all you want, but you better get off your high horse, Booker, because you’re no better than I am. I was in love with you, but you barely give me the time of day, you avoid contact with me as much as possible, and then I smell other women’s perfume on you every other night. So yes, I fucked Will, because I wasn’t going to wait around for you.” Elizabeth spits out the last words, and she thinks for a second she might have stunned Booker into silence. Warmth tracks down her face, and she curses herself for crying yet again in front of him.

And then he’s crossing the room towards her, grabbing her face and smashing his lips onto hers.

Booker kisses the same way he fights; as if he has one chance before Death comes to collect him. He bites down and sucks on her lower lip, and when she gasps against his lips, he slips his tongue into her mouth. Elizabeth’s eyes flutter close, and her heartbeat rabbits against her ribcage. His stubble rubs against her cheek, rough as sandpaper, and his hands nestle themselves against the back of her neck, pulling her closer. She goes with him, kissing him back with passion and violence, teeth clacking together and lips bruising.

Elizabeth’s mind is a mess of wanting to scream, but of fury or glee, she doesn’t know. Her heart hammers a steady beat, as if chanting _yesyesyes_ along with her head, but another part of her is begging to let go. Booker walks her back against the wall, and their bodies become a solid line of warmth, from lips to chests to hips. The weight of her own body is almost too much, and as soon as her knees buckle, his arm wraps around her waist, steadying her. She feels his groin through their clothes, a heavy warmth pressed against her hip, and when he bites down again on her lips, she lets out a guttural moan. Only then does the absolutely wrongness of it all hit her at full force.

They shouldn’t kiss as if they’re in battle. They've fought enough of those for a lifetime.

Elizabeth pushes Booker off of her, breaking the kiss that she so desperately waited for. She catches her breath, and in that moment, she remembers why she was so furious with him in the first place. 

Her hand comes up and slaps him hard across the face. Booker staggers back, his eyes searching hers in disbelief. Her heart is still beating fast and her fingers itch to pull him back in and drown herself in his kiss again, but the rest of her body is shaking in cold rage.

“Liz?” he asks, his voice small like a child’s. 

Elizabeth’s voice is low and cold when she speaks. “You don’t get to do that. I gave you a thousand chances, Booker. You don’t get to take one just because you feel like it. You don’t deserve me yet.” She turns around and heads to the washroom, slamming the door hard on Booker’s stunned face.

She slides down the length of the door to sit on the tile floor of the washroom, and there she finally lets herself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _La Douleur Exquise - The excruciating pain experienced when wanting someone you cannot have. Narrower than “unrequited love,” as it refers specifically to the emotional experience of the one whose love is not being reciprocated. ___
> 
> _The song featured is "We Three (My Echo, My Shadow, and Me)" by the Ink Spots (1940)._


	11. Retrouvailles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How old are you, Mr. Dewitt?” she asks, and Booker is taken aback from the question. The girl’s smile has faded to one of less childlike joy, and more towards a young woman’s flirtation._
> 
> _Booker scoffs, “South of forty, north of you,” he responds, trying his best to sound dismissive._
> 
> _Elizabeth steps up onto the carousel and pulls herself onto a mechanical horse. Booker follows, standing beside her as she looks up at him through her lashes. It makes for an amusing picture: a young woman attempting to look seductive while straddling an amusement park ride._
> 
> _“I’m not nearly as young as you think I am, Mr. Dewitt,” her voice is barely a whisper, as her fingers trail up and lace themselves in Booker’s tie._
> 
> _“I think you’re plenty young, Elizabeth.” He replies, but there’s little resistance from him when she tugs him down by the tie, sealing her lips over his. His hand reaches out to grab onto the carousel pole, covering Elizabeth’s hand and twining their fingers together._  
>  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I'm finally back!  
> I just got back from my conference, and now that Comic Con is all done with, I can finally focus on this thing. I pretty much know where I'm going with this, as opposed to months ago where I was just winging it, but I'm not 100% sure how many chapters are left. I think we're about at the halfway point? Maybe. Who knows.
> 
> Anyway, have some angst, and some smut, and some fluff to round it all out! We also see the return of a favorite character! And allusions to bisexual Elizabeth! And voyeurism thinly veiled as scientific observation!

Days seem longer. The mornings drag on when Elizabeth goes to work. The afternoons in each other’s presence are continually pregnant with unspoken words and tension. And the nights—when Booker has left for the bar and Elizabeth is alone with her thought—are endless.

Elizabeth rarely sleeps. She notices dark circles under her eyes every morning, and Madame Beaumont comments at work ( _“Mon petit oiseau, you must take care of yourself! No girl at your age should ever look this worn out. Here, take this poultice, it’s divine!”)_. And maybe she would care more, care about how her bones ache from turning over in bed every night, or how the bright lights of the city make her head pound and her eyes squint. But caring requires energy, and energy is what she doesn’t have.

Elizabeth knows the tension between her and Booker is only a small percentage of the insomnia. The rest is filled with wakeful nightmares of her vision of Comstock and her re-evaluation of her behavior around Booker. She replays the scene in her head, over and over: her pushing Booker away when he’d finally given her what she wanted. The venom in her voice when she snapped at him for not deserving her.

She knows, in some ways, that she was right. Booker doesn’t deserve her. He’s self-centered and callous, and nowhere near a good man. But she also realizes that she doesn’t deserve him either. Because despite all his misgivings, Booker still stands by her. He may not love her the way she loves him, but he trusts her wholeheartedly, and would burn the world down to protect her. It’s a loyalty Elizabeth had never known.

And instead of being thankful, she was self-righteous. She let her jealousy and anger lace her words. She let the Elizabeth from her visions, her vengeful self, bleed through. She broke open the cage of the Elizabeth that was trapped within the siphon.

She wasn’t sure she liked that Elizabeth.

Pierre steps carefully over the book she has laid out on the bookstore counter. His orange tail brushes up to tickle her nose, breaking Elizabeth out of her revery. She hadn’t noticed that she her mind had wondered, but now, she can’t remember how she had even gotten to work. What time was it? What _day_ was it?

“Every day, and no day at all. It’s a fascinating notion, time. People tend to worry themselves about wasting things that don’t exist at all.”

Elizabeth snaps her head up at the voice, smooth and feminine. Standing at the counter, a copy of H.G. Wells’ _The Time Machine_ in hand, is Rosalind Lutece. Her pumpkin hair piled high on her head, Elizabeth notices the pale green dress she wears, cuffs belled out over a cream blouse, striking in its displacement of era as well as its contrast to Rosalind’s typical brown suit.

After a moment of wide eyed silence, Elizabeth clears her throat, “How did you find me?”

Rosalind doesn’t answer, instead flicking another page of her book. “His physics are sound, theoretically. But there’s an extreme lack of quantum mechanics accounted for in his study.”

“What?”

Rosalind holds the book up to show Elizabeth the cover. “Wells. Solid in theory, but not so much in practice. But you must have come to the same conclusion, surely.” Now she looks at Elizabeth, her blue eyes sharp and curious.

“Why are you here?” Elizabeth asks, keeping her balled fists under the counter and out of sight. Rosalind tilts her head ever so slightly, and Elizabeth notices the similarities between the scientist and her own future self—the knowledge of the entire world in her mind, the ultimate otherness of their shared existence.

She now understands Lady Comstock’s accusations of Rosalind being Elizabeth’s real mother.

“You were given a task, and you never followed through with it. My brother and I hadn’t anticipated your attachment to Dewitt to be quite so…strong.” The pause between her words is just long enough to allow a wave of guilt wash over Elizabeth. _She knows_.

Elizabeth clears her throat, and looks down at the shop counter, busying herself with organizing a pile of news prints that don’t need organizing. “I couldn’t kill him. Am I supposed to feel guilty for not letting another person be murdered?” A chill runs down her spine as she remembers Daisy, bloody hand stretched out towards her.

“If one killing prevents the mass genocide of an entire nation, the murder of hundreds of innocents, does that make it consequential?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve learned nothing,” Rosalind replies, but not unkindly, as if Elizabeth is an outlier in an equation or a science experiment that veered off the hypothesis. Maybe she is.

“I’m not going to kill him.” Elizabeth states, firm.

“He’s already dead.”

Elizabeth tightens her fists, defiance and anger bubbling up. “Not in this timeline.”

Rosalind tilts her head again. Observing the puzzle. “What do you think your visions have been telling you?” Elizabeth’s brow furrows. Rosalind turns back to the book in her hand, speaking into its pages, “You kill one Comstock, you must kill them all. You don’t become exempt from quantum superposition because you happen to fall in love with the person who is meant to no longer exist. The circle only ends when it never happened in the first place.”

She feels her throat tighten, but she refuses to cry in front of this woman. Despite all their arguments, all the avoidance and all the secrets, at least Booker and her were safe. They were far from happy, but they were alive. But if Rosalind was right, then there was no avoiding the inevitable. They could keep running away, running towards each other and clinging to life, but if Booker was meant to die, he would no matter what she did to prevent it.

She holds onto the anger at the unfairness of it all, when she looks back up at Rosalind, eyes defiant. “What do you care about messing with quantum superposition? You pulled a copy of yourself into another universe, and time didn’t collapse.”

The scientist’s eyes soften, as if she can read Elizabeth’s own thoughts and fears. “My brother and I paid the consequences for our actions. And I didn’t come here to upset you. You need to understand that time will follow you until you complete the task. Your love for him cannot alter that.”

_Time rots everything. Even hope._

Rosalind places _The Time Machine_ on the counter between them and gives Elizabeth a small smile. She turns towards the door to make her leave, but Elizabeth realizes she doesn’t want her too. The Luteces are the only ones who know exactly what she’s going through, and as horrible as Rosalind’s words were, she still feels the pull to connect with someone who understands.

Elizabeth rounds the counter as Rosalind approaches the door. “Wait!” she calls out, and Rosalind stops, facing the door, not turning back.

“Yes?”

Elizabeth pauses, not knowing what to say now that she has her attention. She thinks briefly about when she was a child, living under Songbird’s gaze, and Rosalind would come and visit, sneaking books into the library for Elizabeth to read when she got older. The memories had disappeared when the siphon was installed, but like pulling threads of a tear, she can unravel the cobweb of memories. Dreaming of conversing with her hero, the only person she ever saw as a child, the only human connection she had, when her mother wouldn’t dare look her in the face. She thinks maybe she was in love with Rosalind, once upon a time, before she knew what love was, when it was still something unconditional in her mind, when princesses were rescued from towers and married the prince.

Now she’s as tongue-tied as she was as a child.

_Tell me what to do. Don’t leave me on my own. Please, stay._

Instead, she clears her throat, heat rising in her cheeks. “You’re not going to judge me? For being in love with him?” She can’t say his name. Can’t say _my father_. Because voicing it would give it life, and she still wants to live in a world where they could ignore the parameters of their relationship.

Rosalind turns to look at her and lets out a _hmm_ , the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “You cannot escape the inevitability of Dewitt’s death. Why should I try to interfere with another inevitability? It has no biological consequence now, and what will be is what has been.”

Elizabeth furrows her brow again, sifting through Rosalind’s words. “What has been? I don’t understand—you said before that you didn’t predict my feelings to be so strong.”

“Your feelings for Booker Dewitt were strong enough to save his life. You’re the only one who escaped with him. But you’re not the only one who acted on her feelings. Constants and variables.”

Elizabeth doesn’t speak, letting the realization wash over her. Other versions of herself had fallen for Booker—had _acted_ upon those feelings. If it was a constant, it was always meant to happen. And if it was always meant to happen, did she need to continue feeling guilty for the love she felt for him, even when she knew it was morally wrong?

Rosalind smiles again, as if sharing a secret. “I know a thing or two about suppressing unwanted impulses. If the curiosity strikes you, I would suggest using some skills you might possess to further examine your hypothesis. It may bring some understanding and clarity.” She nods once, turning around and exiting out the door, pulling it shut behind her.

Elizabeth stands in the middle of the bookshop, her face flushed and the only sound coming from Pierre’s soft purrs from the counter.

 

* * *

 

Booker works a double shift the next night, and Elizabeth convinces herself it’s the best time to experiment with her hypothesis. The convincing takes little time at all—she’s curious to see if Rosalind’s remark holds true—but it takes longer for her to work up the courage to follow through. She hasn’t opened a tear since her encounter with the vision of Comstock, and his face still haunts her dreams. If she were to open another within his reach…

Elizabeth shudders at the thought. Opening tears is risky enough, without the added fear of Comstock stealing her away again. She also thinks of the mechanics involved—she would have to avoid being seen by either her other self or Booker, because the entire timeline could implode or wink out of existence. It’s enough to make her turn back and forget about the whole situation.

But she can’t forget about it. It claws at her mind all evening, and she plays with the thimble on her finger, spinning it around in agitation, thinking and rethinking her strategy.

Elizabeth situates herself on top of the bed sheets, dressed in her chemise and drawers, her feet bare and cold from the winter wind whistling through the window crack. She stares up at the spackled ceiling, and her muscles tense from the familiarity of the last time she did this. It’s the safest way, she reasons, opening and stealing small glimpses of each universe, instead of jumping through every tear. It allows her to observe without interrupting, and prevents her from getting lost behind one of the infinite number of doors.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth takes a deep breath, focusing in her mind’s eye for what she wants to search for. She can sense the threads of a million tears stretching before her, each one vibrating and singing in her veins, calling out to her, begging to be opened. A million universes, each different in their own way. But she’s not searching for the variables, not this time around. She wraps a curious finger around a single thread and gives a gentle tug. _Show me the constant,_ she asks it silently, and when a warm breeze grazes her face, she opens her eyes.

_Her eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, the musty scent of rotten wood and straw attacking her nostrils. Laced underneath, the distinct scent of whiskey. A few kerosene lamps flicker in the room, allowing the space to fill with a dull orange glow. Barrels of water and alcohol cover the floor, and a rickety staircase leads up to a floor above._

_Elizabeth recognizes the place—Shantytown, when her and Booker had a moment to breathe among the chaos. The guitar that Booker played rests against the seat of an abandoned chair to the right, but she sees no sign of him or her other self._

_A young boy—Elizabeth remembers singing to him—rushes up the stairs, footsteps plodding._

_“Wait, come back!” Elizabeth follows the sound of the voice,_ her voice _, and sees herself striding towards the steps, ready to follow the boy up. A hand grabs her other self by the arm, and Booker steadies her to a stop._

_“Let him go. I don’t think anyone would be too fond of finding a colored boy walking around with two white folk. Ain’t the way it is around here.” Booker reasons, but Elizabeth’s other self pulls her arm from his grasp._

_“Well, the way it is around here is wrong,” she spits back, turning her back to Booker. Elizabeth can see her face now, the torn expression of going against her own moral code. More and more cages to break free from._

_Booker comes up from behind the other Elizabeth and gently wraps his arms around her waist, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. Elizabeth’s breath catches—from their time in Columbia, Booker never touched her with such affection. And here, watching her other self relax into the touch so casually, as if they had been this familiar for days, turns something in her heart._

_“I know. It’s not fair,” Booker whispers into the other Elizabeth’s hair._

_“I want to get out of here, Booker. Why would anyone want to live in a place like this?” her hand lifts to reach behind her, running her fingers through Booker’s hair. He places a kiss to her neck, and Elizabeth closes her eyes along with her parallel self, imagining the phantom press of the kiss the other Booker gives so willingly. She never imagined that would ever be jealous of herself, and yet she yearns for the tender love their other selves share._

_“We’ll get away. I promise. We’ll get Fitzroy’s guns and then take the Airship back. Straight to Paris, I promise.” And when he says it, Elizabeth believes him. Not like her own Booker, who still weaves lies and half truths around her, even when they’re well-intentioned. Her other self turns in his arms, hands reaching up to stroke his temple._

_Her voice is somber when she amends, “If we make it out alive.”_

_Booker pulls her closer, his voice rough and determined. “We will. I’m not gonna let you get hurt.”_

_He leans down as kisses her with such ease, that Elizabeth knows it isn’t the first time. The other Elizabeth responds immediately, her fingers carding through his hair, eyes shut as she opens her mouth, allowing Booker access._

_Elizabeth’s heart begins to pound, heat in her body rising from watching herself and Booker kiss passionately. She feels hot all over, and she knows she should close the tear, leave the two to their privacy, but she can’t take her eyes off of them._

_Sure enough, the other Elizabeth’s hands leave Booker’s hair, nails raking down his shirt. Booker responds in kind, moaning his satisfaction and backing her up against one of the basement’s support beams. Her hands keep traveling downward, until they still at waistband of his trousers. Booker breaks away, but there’s still heat in his eyes._

_“Are you sure?” He asks, and the other Elizabeth nods, her left hand reaching back up to cup his cheek._

_“I know you’ll keep your promise, and I know we’ll survive this. But in case we don’t…” she trails off, unable to give voice to her fears, though Elizabeth knows how valid those fears are. Instead, the other Elizabeth’s hand slides down into Booker’s trousers, and he lets out a guttural groan as she palms his cock beneath the fabric. His hips jerk in response, and he grabs one of her legs, his hand grazing up the length of her stocking to her drawers._

Elizabeth yanks at the thread in her hand, and with a gust of warm air, the tear closes in front of her. She’s sweating all over, her blood thumping wildly in her ears. Her experiment has left her out of breath, and she thinks not for the first time that it may have been a bad idea to go snooping into her other lives.

Warmth blooms in her core, and she ignores the urge to reach down and touch herself, because she knows one outlier in an infinite number of universes isn’t enough to convince her of the constant. She has to look at other possibilities in order to discern a conclusion.

Elizabeth breathes steadily, focusing on returning her heart rate to normal, as she reaches out towards the other threads that snake towards her. One tickles across her knuckles, and she wraps her hand around it, tugging the tear open.

_The sky shimmers lilac against the bright lights of the shops, pink clouds scattered across the horizon. Elizabeth’s mirror eats a hotdog, her face lighting up in unadulterated joy. Booker smirks back._

_“This is amazing! I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful in my life!” She giggles, wiping mustard from the corner of her lip. Booker tosses the rest of his food in the garbage, scanning the area discreetly for signs of trouble before turning back to Elizabeth, who has already strolled down the walkway towards the carousel._

_“Will you slow down?” Booker admonishes, and Elizabeth looks back, her smile giddy, though her eyes remain calculating._

_“How old are you, Mr. Dewitt?” she asks, and Booker is taken aback from the question. The girl’s smile has faded to one of less childlike joy, and more towards a young woman’s flirtation._

_Booker scoffs, “South of forty, north of you,” he responds, trying his best to sound dismissive._

_Elizabeth steps up onto the carousel and pulls herself onto a mechanical horse. Booker follows, standing beside her as she looks up at him through her lashes. It makes for an amusing picture: a young woman attempting to look seductive while straddling an amusement park ride._

_“I’m not nearly as young as you think I am, Mr. Dewitt,” her voice is barely a whisper, as her fingers trail up and lace themselves in Booker’s tie._

_“I think you’re plenty young, Elizabeth.” He replies, but there’s little resistance from him when she tugs him down by the tie, sealing her lips over his. His hand reaches out to grab onto the carousel pole, covering Elizabeth’s hand and twining their fingers together._

The tear closes as another takes its place.

_Elizabeth is covered in bruises, her back aching from the machine she’s been hooked up to for days. Or has it been weeks? She can’t remember anymore—time has become irrelevant. Her corset is undone, and she knows she’s practically naked and vulnerable in front of Booker, but he’s holding her so tight, as if she might dissolve if he lets go, and how could she complain?_

_“I’m never leaving you again,” he mutters, and she can hear the crack in his voice, but she won’t mention it. She won’t mention the pain or the heartbreak she suffered when she had thought he abandoned her. She won’t mention the humiliation she endured while under Comstock’s watchful eye. She won’t mention any of it, because to voice it would make it a reality, and what she needs is to escape reality._

_Booker doesn’t notice at first when she starts to unbutton his vest. When he does, he pulls away and holds her at arms length._

_“Elizabeth, what are you—?”_

_She shakes her head, working her way down the buttons of his shirt. His hands reach to stop hers, and she feels like sobbing because she_ needs _him, needs his hands on her waist and his mouth on her breasts. She needs him to feel human again._

_“Please—I want to,” is all she can say, even when she can’t look at his face. She knows the look of pity he’ll give her, and it’s the last thing she wants._

_“You’re injured, Elizabeth. We can’t, not now,” He finally stops her hands from exploring his body, but she just curls her hands into fists and beats against his chest._

_“No! You don’t understand! You don’t know what they did to me!” her tears trail down her cheeks, and she grabs at his shirt, burying her head in shame against the fabric. Booker just pulls her closer, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her bare back. She hiccups through the tears, “I just need to feel something again. Please.” Elizabeth looks up to him, her eyes pleading. Booker’s face softens, and he sighs._

_“I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t do that,” He says, and Elizabeth’s shoulders sag in defeat, but Booker gently pushes her back against the chair. “Lean back,” he whispers, and when he sinks to his knees, his hands rucking up the hem of her skirt, she relaxes for what feels like the first time in years._

_And when his tongue travels the length of her folds, Elizabeth lets out a pleasant sigh of relief, and she finally feels whole again._

The tear closes.

 _Elizabeth’s breasts are pressed against the top of the desk, her cheek against the cool wood. Her skirt is hiked up around her hips, her fingers laced together with his as his grip tightens around her waist. The shoes she’s make her feet ache, but_ god _she can’t tell when he’s pumping into her again and again. Her body drags back and forth against the desk with each thrust, and every time he hits deeper, she lets out little cries of “ah, ah, ah”._

_The lipstick on her lips is smeared across her cheek, and she thinks she might have broken a nail at some point, but she doesn’t care, because he’s finally with her again, skin slapping against skin, and moans so loud that Elizabeth hopes all of Rapture can hear her as she tumbles towards her own._

_His lips are gentle against the back of her neck, even as he sets a punishing rhythm with his thrusts, but Elizabeth doesn’t care. She didn’t come to be treated like some delicate flower. She’d rather they bite their way through each kiss and orgasm, but if he chooses to be tender, she isn’t going to stop him. Not when he keeps hitting her core so perfectly, as if there was no difference between her Booker and this one._

_“Shit,” he growls into her back, and she smirks, tightening around him. “I’m gonna fucking come.”_

_“Do it,” she replies back, her voice hitching in time with their pace, “Come inside me, Mr. Dewitt. I want to feel it.”_

_He groans at her words, reaching down to rub at her clit, and Elizabeth cries out in ecstasy, tumbling over the edge as she orgasms. She tightens in spasms around his cock, and he lets out a final moan before collapsing on top of her, truly spent. They breathe in the silence of the office, sweat accumulating across their bodies, and when Booker stands and pulls out, Elizabeth balances her own weight against the desk._

_Booker mumbles something about getting a cloth to clean up, and when he disappears into the bathroom, Elizabeth finally stands, straightening her skirt and pulling out a cigarette. As she lights it, she glances over to her left, and looks straight back out of the tear, at the Elizabeth watching her from the other side._

_Elizabeth’s breath hitches at being caught, but her other self just smirks, blowing a puff of smoke from behind her cherry lips. She leans against the desk, not bothering to button her shirt, and turns towards the tear, an eyebrow quirked._

_“Like what you see?” she asks, and Elizabeth is struck by how different her own reflection could be. Her voice is smooth and sultry, the quintessential picture of seduction. She can’t fathom a universe where they are one and the same._

_“Why him?” she asks, not knowing how else to voice her real concern. Because she’s had visions of this Booker, and she knows he can’t compare to the one she left Columbia with._

_“Because it’s Booker,” the other Elizabeth answers, as if there were any other answer to such a question._

_“But he’s not your Booker. Not really. He’s….” she can’t bring herself to say it. He’s_ Comstock _. It feels more wrong, watching herself have sex with this Booker, but her mirrored self just shrugs and takes a long drag of the cigarette._

_“He’s the closest I’ve found to him. And I’ve been looking a long time.” She stubs the cigarette out on the desk, making a circular burn in the wood, before standing up again and walking towards the tear. She looks Elizabeth in the eye. “Do you have your answer yet?”_

_She does, though she doesn’t voice it. Instead, she whispers, “He’s going to die.”_

_The other Elizabeth straightens and stares back, her eyes softening. She lifts her hand, and Elizabeth thinks she might reach out to her, but when her fingers curl around the air, she knows she’s reaching for the tear instead._

_“He doesn’t have to.” And with a flick of her wrist, the tear closes between them._

 

* * *

 

The December winds whip the snow across the sidewalk in spirals and flourishes. Elizabeth tightens her grip on the shawl she haphazardly threw over her shoulders while leaving the apartment. Her boots crunch with each step, snow packing down with every stride. She hadn’t thought about keeping herself warm when she dressed to leave—only in a blue striped dress, the sleeves reaching down to her elbows, her neck and forearms exposed to the evening chill. Elizabeth grits her teeth when a gust of wind threatens to raise her skirts, but she keep trudging forward.

The Chateau Laurent isn’t far, she knows. She’s only been the one time with Will and Marcus, but she knows that Booker walks to and from work every day, so there’s no reason why she can’t walk there herself. She just wishes it weren’t so cold. Or dark.

A man passes by and leers in her direction, and Elizabeth is thankful that she remembered to bring her pistol with her for protection. Most of the people she passes on the street are too drunk to notice her, but some aren’t so inebriated to refrain from telling her exactly what they’d like to do to her. Her steps always quicken afterwards, her grip tightening on her gun.

Up ahead, through the cloud of snow and fog, the lights of the Chateau Laurent blaze brightly through the gloom, and Elizabeth smiles in relief at seeing Booker again. With new determination, she quickens her pace, ignoring the drunken patrons that begin to swarm the streets from the neighboring bars. Her skirts are wet with snow, and her boots slip every few steps, but she ignores it all. Because she knows what she wants, and she’s never been more sure that she can actually _have_ what she wants, and it fills her with an urgency to see his face, to kiss his lips, to touch him and let him touch her in every which way.

And then he’s _there_ , right in front of her, exiting out the front door of the bar, bundled in a much more practical winter coat. The lamppost on the sidewalk casts a halo of light around his figure, as if calling to her like a beacon. Her heart thumps loudly in her chest, and she rushes in the direction of the bar, calling out, “Booker!” into the chilly air.

He looks up, and a look of confusion crosses his face before Elizabeth barrels into him, her arms wrapped tightly around his middle in a warm embrace. And _god_ , does he feel warm, and safe, and solid.

“Liz, what are you doing here? Jesus Christ, where’s your coat?” He asks, and she can imagine the hard crease that’s formed in the middle of his forehead, a constant sign of his worry towards her. She breathes in his scent before finally looking up at his face, so thankful to see the _real_ Booker that she almost breaks into tears.

“I love you,” she whispers, and the shocked expression in his green eyes is encouragement enough to emphasize, “I’m sorry for everything.” She wants to tell him that her self-righteousness was a mask for her to hide behind, a way to distance herself from the reality of the world she was in. A way to hide her jealousy and anger when she couldn’t have Booker to herself. But she thinks he might already know all of that. “I was wrong, Booker. And I love you so much. It killed me to know you didn’t return my feelings, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you. Not ever.”

Booker’s eyes soften, and he brushes stray snowflakes off of her cheeks. Her hair is damp from the melting snow, and her nose is red from the chill, but she ignores it all when he cups her jaw in his hand. “Elizabeth,” he starts, and her heart flutters at the warmth in his voice, like hot cider warming from her head to her toes. “I would do anything for you. I’ve burned down entire cities for you. How can you know that and not think I was in love with you?” he grin widely down at her, the same way he did on their first night in Paris. As if Elizabeth held his entire world in her hands. Maybe she does.

Elizabeth smiles back through her tears as Booker opens his coat, wrapping it around her like a warm cocoon. She threads her hands in his hair, and when he leans down, she lets his lips finally touch hers.

This kiss is different in every way. There’s no fighting, no remorse, no guilt. Booker’s kiss is gentle, even when his lips are chapped, filling Elizabeth up with warmth and tenderness and love. So much love. She nips lightly at his bottom lip, and he chuckles deep in his throat, pulling her closer to him, licking at the seam of her lips. She responds in kind, tightening her grip in his hair, opening her mouth to allow him to explore. Heat runs down her entire body, and she thinks that maybe forgetting a coat was to her advantage in the end.

When Booker finally pulls away, much too soon, he rests his forehead against hers, breathing in her air. Elizabeth looks into his eyes, her hands massaging the back of his neck, searching for any kind of doubt in his features and finding none. He’s absolutely open in this moment, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him with his guard down like this. It makes her giddy and wild, knowing that she was the one to cause it.

“I love you,” he whispers back to her, and Elizabeth does cry at that. She never imagined a life for herself where she would get what she wanted, yet the universe decided to give her this small gift.

She grins and stands on her toes, pulling him back in for another searing kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Retrouvailles - The joy experienced after meeting again after being a long time apart. ___


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